


Bad Blood (A "Sick With Longing" Sequel)

by LaLumiere



Series: Sick With Longing [2]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fame, Feels, Friendship, Internal Conflict, Jealousy, Manipulation, Masturbation, Public Relations, Sex, Sexual Tension, Smut, Tom is a Cad, Voice Kink, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-08-08 18:16:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 68,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7768213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaLumiere/pseuds/LaLumiere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been one year.</p><p>Former UK publicist Kate Michael is riding a wave of personal success. Her former charge, Tom Hiddleston, is at an all-time low. </p><p>The two will reunite - but this time, Kate's calling all the shots, and it's going to get ugly.</p><p> </p><p>This fic should be read AFTER "Sick With Longing".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> My TH muse burned itself out in the early weeks of June, lovelies. His shenanigans this summer have totally turned me off - and I don't really know how I feel about him at the moment. Needless to say, I hiatused the HELL out of my incomplete fics and haven't written anything in months.
> 
> And yet…late last night, my mind starts churning about my sweet OC, Kate Michael. And she had a LOT to say about what's been going on with Tom lately. 
> 
> So I present to you the sequel of "Sick With Longing." No idea how long it will be or where it will go, but…I'm typing as fast as I can.
> 
> Love you. Thanks for reading. Talk to me in the comments!
> 
> xoxo
> 
> P.S. The only thing I like about Taylor Swift is the song title I stole from her for this fic. Never liked her before she was with Tom, don't like her now. 
> 
> Tom, please marry Hayley Atwell.

**_Blind Item_ **

_**Shhh! News** _

_What actor’s semi-bad year got infinitely worse once he started “dating” this global pop singing sensation? Industry insiders are telling him to bite the bullet and escape his contract obligations in any way possible, but the people on said actor’s payroll are digging their heels in to try and right the sinking ship. You could have called this gentleman close to A-list only a few months ago. Now he’ll be lucky to grab B._

_What’s worse? Some of his peers are whispering none too softly that he’s getting what he deserves._

 

 

_**We’re Longing for Days Past** _

_**Rumourroom.co.uk** _

_Dear Readers,_

_A year can make all the difference, can’t it? We’re in as much disbelief as you over this whole Tom Hiddleston/Taylor Swift debacle. It must be said that for someone with such a carefully calculated public image, Hiddles has totally lost his mind and gone off the deep end. (Kudos to you, dear anonymous blogger, who joked that maybe he’d contracted some brain-eating bacteria in the wilds of Vietnam during filming of_ Skull Island _!)_

_Are we in denial over our fast-fading, once red-hot crush on T-Hiddy? No. We’ve been getting a lot of tip-offs, sweet readers, about just how fake this whole “relationship” is. Not that we needed any, of course. The whiplash of headlines for the past few months of, “are they?” or, “aren’t they?” and the breaking up and getting back together and the engagement rumours and endless debates are bringing “fake” to a whole new level for us._

_Rule numero uno here at Rumour Room: if you’re going to do a pap stroll, do it right. Don’t ask us to comment on the trotting out of mummy, sister, and niece. We might regurgitate. Has anyone ever seen Tom so uncomfortable and rehearsed?_

_Mr. Loquacious is suddenly stunned silent, isn’t he?_

_Indeed, loyal gossipers, it was just shy of a year ago that we were fawning over Tom for different reasons – especially the lovely Kate Michael, still quietly considered to be one of the greatest assets in the Hiddleston camp. Safe to say that after she resigned her position with Prosper UK, it was all downhill for Loki. Too bad he screwed that up._

_Scroll through our archives if you need to get caught up._

_Here’s hoping for a gossip miracle, dear readers,_

_Rumour Room_

 

 

_**Tom Hiddleston’s Instagram @twhiddleston** _

_**2 posts** _

_**829k followers** _

_**17 following** _

 

 

_**Luke J. Windsor’s Twitter @lukejwindsor** _

_**Luke J. Windsor Retweeted** _

_@ShhhNews has the latest, greatest photos of Tom and Taylor having dinner the other night #celebculture #romantic_

 

 

 

_**To: “Kate Michael” kmichael@chch.ox.ac.uk** _

_**F** _ _**rom: “David Layne” dlayne@chch.ox.ac.uk** _

_**Subject: Well Done!** _

_Kate,_

_Proud to say that I purchased a copy of your (finally) published book and read it within a day this past weekend! I must admit I wasn’t too happy that you wouldn’t let any of us on staff conference with you on your work (read: take a sneak peek), but you’ve really produced a beaut of a piece! Worth the wait. And not something I would normally read, I must admit._

_It truly is pleasantly surprising that a professor of Victorian Literature can produce such a forthright nonfiction effort. Did they not make you sign any NDAs when you left your previous position?_

_Anyway, just wanted to applaud a colleague on her marvelous work. We’re so pleased to have hired you and Janet and I would like to start you on the track to a tenured position in the near future. Let’s schedule a lunch after the start-of-term madness settles down, yes?_

_Dave_

 

 

_**To: “David Layne” dlayne@chch.ox.ac.uk** _

_**From: “Kate Michael” kmichael@chch.ox.ac.uk** _

_**Subject: Re: Well Done!** _

_David!!_

_I’m laughing myself simple that our resident Milton scholar has delved into the murky waters of the entertainment industry! Truly a “paradise lost” situation, if you’ll pardon the joke. ;)_

_Would love to have a sit-down with you and Janet; name the time and place and I’m there. Now that the book is done, I actually have some free moments when I’m not lecturing or conferencing with students._

_P.S. My former employer(s) felt like such shit after I quit that they reneged on their NDAs in a bid to keep me on with them. I had them sign some legal documentation for me to confirm I had no red tape in my way and still resigned. I was quite good at playing the game there, for a while at least. Give my love to your sweet wife…the flowers she sent last week were gorgeous! I should write another book just to get treated this well all the time, haha!_

_K_

 

 

_**Former Prosper UK Employee Pens Juicy Tell-All Tinged with Academic Flavour** _

_**Daily Mail** _

_If there was any doubt about the state of Tom Hiddleston and former assistant Kate Michael’s relationship when things ended last year, there certainly isn’t anymore._

_The university professor-turned personal assistant-turned university author’s first published effort was released earlier this week to what is unanimously being described as “voracious public interest.”_

_After quietly resigning her position at Prosper UK several months ago, Michael relocated from London to Oxford (amid a great deal of chatter) to resume her teaching career with a specialization in 19th Century British Literature and Victorian Studies. No one knew at the time that an eminently readable, highly engrossing, and fundamentally useful book would come of her time away from the spotlight._

_Perhaps Miss Michael wrote the piece as a way to work through the very public scrutiny she faced while working with Hiddleston, not to mention what appeared to be a very bitter professional – and some say personal – end. For when one reads the book, it does detail in layman’s terms what it's like for an outsider to enter the entertainment industry and try to make the most of it._ _There are veiled moments of truth scattered copiously throughout – dropping obvious hints to readers about the true nature of Hiddleston, his modus operandi, and the inner workings of their “relationship.”_

 _Most interestingly, the beautiful young scholar interjects throwbacks to famous literary works while writing about her experiences at Prosper UK and within the harsh glare of the media spotlight. There are sly allusions to public figures that Michael has renamed after characters in literature, like George Wickham of_ Pride and Prejudice _fame. Even the book’s title comes from an old slang Victorian-era term meaning “secret, shady, or doubtful.” Several people are even commenting at the cheekiness of such a potentially damaging work; for example, one chapter is entitled, “How to Properly Market a Film Like_ Crimson Peak _Courtesy of Someone Who Knows Gothic Romance.”_

Skilamalink _is available wherever books are sold._

 

 

_**Blind Item** _

_**Shhh! News** _

_So how bad is the professional fallout when you’ve managed to make a staged relationship last only a handful of months before things begin imploding at an unbelievable pace?_

_If you’re the female portion of the arrangement worth millions upon millions, not too bad – there won’t be much._

_I_ _f you’re the barely well known male, more and more opportunities are going to dry up. He already lost out on a popular modeling campaign and definitely didn’t do himself any double-agent favours._

 

 

 

_**Our Faves in the News Once More!** _

_**Rumourroom.co.uk** _

_Dear Readers,_

_We know you stalk the blind items just as frequently as we do – and we’re here to tell you that two of the most recent ones via_ Shhh! News _couldn’t be any more obvious. Here at Rumour Room, we won’t insult your intelligence by telling you who they’re about._

_We know you already know._

_They’re also both true. Anyone with two eyes and half a brain can see and understand that._

_But what’s interesting is that our girl Kate Michael has emerged from her underground spot in Oxfordshire. Timing’s interesting, no?_

_Like you, we got our hands on_ Skilamalink _the day it came out and read it cover to cover obsessively searching for goods. Our girl totally delivered – it was gossip, it was glam, and it was genius! Not only does Kate look excellent in couture, she can pen like a philosopher and dish like a diva._

_We feel smarter and savvier already, dear readers,_

_Rumour Room_

 

 

 

_**To: “Kate Michael” kmichael@chch.ox.ac.uk** _

_**From: “Luke J. Windsor” ljwindsor@prosperpr.co.uk** _

_**Subject: Dinner** _

_I read it, Yank. Could’ve been worse, so thanks for that. We need to have dinner._

 

 

 

_**To: “Luke J. Windsor” ljwindsor@prosperpr.co.uk** _

_**From: “Kate Michael” kmichael@chch.ox.ac.uk** _

_**Subject: Re: Dinner** _

_This is my work email. I’m not doing that. Try again._

_K_

 

 

 

_**To: “Kate Michael” kmichael@gmail.com** _

_**From: “Luke J. Windsor” ljwindsor@prosperpr.co.uk** _

_**Subject: Dinner Again** _

_Sorry, Yank! Busy day here._

_Like I said, we need to have dinner. It’s been awhile since we’ve caught up. I can come to you or have a car sent so you can come to me. Let me know._

_Luke_

 

 

 

_**To: “Luke J. Windsor” ljwindsor@prosperpr.co.uk** _

_**From: “Kate Michael” kmichael@gmail.com** _

_**Subject: Re: Dinner Again** _

_I can’t say I’m surprised to hear from you at the moment, darling lobsterback. It’s funny that we kept in touch regularly for a while but then I suddenly seemed to drop off your radar a few months ago._

_Timing is everything, isn’t it?_

_I’m not coming to London. Let me know when you’re around my part of the country and I’ll see what I can do in terms of my schedule. If this is a dinner to talk about the book, I’m canceling._

_K_

 

 

 

_**To: “Kate Michael” kmichael@gmail.com** _

_**From: “Luke J. Windsor” ljwindsor@prosperpr.co.uk** _

_**Subject: Re: Re: Dinner Again** _

_I’m coming to you; no book talk. Noted._

_Luke_

 

 

 

_**To: “Luke J. Windsor” ljwindsor@prosperpr.co.uk** _

_**From: “Kate Michael” kmichael@gmail.com** _

_**Subject: Re: Re: Re: Dinner Again** _

_I bet I know what this is about, don’t I?_

 

 

 

_**To: “Kate Michael” kmichael@gmail.com** _

_**From: “Luke J. Windsor” ljwindsor@prosperpr.co.uk** _

_**Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Dinner Again** _

_Desperate times, Kate…_

 

 

 

_**To: “Luke J. Windsor” ljwindsor@prosperpr.co.uk** _

_**From: “Kate Michael” kmichael@gmail.com** _

_**Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Dinner Again** _

_Son of a bitch, Windsor._

_You’re buying._

_And I want wine._


	2. Used to Be Mad Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke and Kate sit down to a tense, enlightening dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is literally flying out of my fingertips, ladies and gents. Round and round we go…where it ends, I have absolutely NO idea!
> 
> For the longest time I wasn't going to write a sequel about Tom and Kate…even though I had initially planned to. These two are screaming at me to write, write, write!
> 
> Leave me that good love!
> 
> xoxo

In the end, I settled for dinner at my place.

Call me paranoid, but I’d been photographed and found out enough in my past life to have a suspicion that if Luke Windsor was spotted in Oxford, a dam would break somewhere and I would be washed out to sea.

He brought me wine, though, which was the only pleasant surprise about his arrival at my door.

“Hello, my sweet Yank,” he smiled, thrusting the bottle of Shiraz at me in a strange sort of “please don’t hurt me” gesture.

I snagged the bottle from him and yanked Luke through the doorway, lest someone spot him. Startled, he chuckled a bit.

“You _do_ realize that the majority of people don’t know me, right?”

I shook my head and slammed the door, walking through the main floor of my apartment – _flat,_ I still could never remember that one – toward the kitchen.

“Never hurts to take precautions,” I muttered, banging the wine bottle onto my kitchen island and rummaging in a drawer where I knew the corkscrew would be. “Get yourself a glass and have a seat, lobsterback.”

Wisely, Luke did as he was told. He was being strangely quiet, but I wasn’t surprised. This was the first time I’d seen him in four months. He knew I was smart enough to work out the timeline of his disappearance.

My former boss handed me his glass, delicately placing it beside my own on the countertop, and sat down on a barstool across the island from me. Clearing his throat, Luke seemed to bolster his courage and opened his mouth to speak. I raised my hand in a “stop” gesture, causing him to snap his mouth shut and raise his eyebrows, staring at me expectantly. Taking hold of my own wine glass, I took a deep breath, drank half of the contents very quickly, and poured myself more of the deep, blood-red liquid.

“You’re not here to talk about the book. Like you _promised,”_ I began, “and I know you don’t have a problem with it because I didn’t violate any legal agreements. I used pseudonyms for anything that might be considered libelous, and I think, all told, it’s actually a fairly glowing report of your golden boy. Nod if I’m correct.”

He did. We both took another sip from our respective glasses.

“I know that –” Luke tried to start again, but once more, I held up my palm and waited for silence.

“I don’t need to tell you how obvious you are, Luke Windsor, with your deafening silence since May, or the fact that you’re coming to me out of the blue right now to ‘catch up’…” I drawled, giving him a pitying look over the rim of my glass. “In fact, your obviousness really extends to all other areas of your life, doesn’t it?”

He had the good sense to avoid looking confused at my accusation. I rewarded his forthrightness by letting him into the conversation.

“She doesn’t like you, so I essentially cut off contact to keep things calm…” he trailed off.

I knew who _she_ was. Funny thing, though – we’d never met.

“Oh _she_ doesn’t like _me?_ Someone I’ve never met doesn’t like me because I used to work for her quote-unquote boyfriend? Jesus she really IS a control freak, isn’t she?” I seethed.

Luke drained his glass and motioned for me to pass him the bottle.

“Well, then,” I sighed, trying to calm the spots of red I was seeing everywhere, “I hope you’re not going to get in trouble with Her Royal Highness for coming to talk to me, seeing as how I used to work for you _too_ and we’ve actually had a really wonderful friendship all along…”

It was Luke’s turn to put his palm up in a “stop” gesture.

“Are we eating, or did you lure me here to steal my wine and lecture me?” he asked, trying to make me smile. It didn’t work.

_“You_ offered the wine, thank you very much,” I scowled. “And I’ve called for a takeaway from the Chinese restaurant near campus.”

Luke feigned hurt at my announcement. “You’re not even going to cook for me personally?” he whined. “You used to cook for Tom, from what I remember.”

“Ancient history,” I rolled my eyes. “Besides, why waste all my good skills for a night that I’m presuming is going to end up giving me an ulcer and a stress headache?”

Luke struggled to answer this question; he knew I was right. I was saved from having to continue the annoying line of conversation by the sound of my doorbell ringing. I pointed toward the foyer. “You go get our dinner. And you’re paying. Put it on Prosper’s expense list for the day,” I declared, moving around to the cupboards so I could retrieve plates and bowls for our food. “If there’s one thing I’m used to, it’s you boys footing the bill for all my wants and needs.”

I heard Luke bark a laugh down the hallway, followed by the sounds of takeaway bags exchanging hands. By the time he returned to the kitchen, I’d prepared the table and laid out all of the necessary utensils for our dinner. Being in the snarky mood that I was, one such necessity was an autographed copy of _Skilamalink_ right beside Luke’s plate. I knew he already had one, but I was feeling a bit irritated at him for showing up after four months’ silence.

“‘ _I suppose you’re to thank for this book’s creation. With grudging respect, Kate_ ,’” Luke read the inscription while I opened takeaway boxes and began doling out food onto the crockery in front of me. His smile widened.

“Now _that’s_ something I hadn’t thought of before – I’m technically responsible for this book’s conception,” he gloated as I began to dig into the lo mein noodles on my plate. “I should receive a cut of your earnings!”

Snorting in a most unladylike manner, I shook my head at Luke’s pronouncement. I would be damned if his lifestyle took anything else from me.

“There’s no way in _hell._ Nice try,” I paused to sip some more wine. “You’re not here to talk about the book. You’ve already signaled the fact that you abandoned me because Miss Teen USA holds some stupid schoolyard grudge over everyone and everything. Cut to the chase, Windsor. What’s changed? Why come crawling back now?”

Luke thoughtfully chewed the piece of eggroll in his mouth, swallowing and wiping his lips carefully before he responded. I knew he was biding his time, his brain quickly trying to find the least awkward and/or painful way to have the conversation he came to have. I sped up the process with a hint.

“Do it like a Band-aid…like a _plaster_ as you all call it over here. Just rip it off quick and get it over with, okay?” I tried to smile encouragingly but the lo mein noodles had suddenly turned to lead in my stomach.

_Here we go…_

He took one deep breath and it all bubbled out of him before I could stop him, or plug my ears, or leave the table.

“You know we’re in over our heads and you know who I mean by we. He’s miserable and stubborn and fought us every step of the way to get this ball rolling so he could, and I quote, ‘increase his visibility’ and garner more press. Surprise! It worked! And he’s now a laughingstock who’s losing out on opportunities left and right. People are blaming my firm and me but we’re trying to minimize the damage. She essentially runs the show and makes all the decisions and he’s so desperate for it to work that he goes along blindly…”

I said nothing, knowing there would be more. Luke took another drink of Shiraz and continued.

“Everyone knows it’s a PR relationship and that she’s going to be less than kind when – not _if_ – he exits the contract. I’m just trying to look ahead and prevent the fallout that I know is headed our way. It’s huge. Armani backed out. The Bond thing exploded in our faces. He was lucky just to get the Emmy nomination but everyone can see that will be a no-go, as well. Some of my calls aren’t getting returned and he literally has nothing on the books after the Marvel work dries up.”

My silence continued. I listened as patiently as I could, swirling the liquid in my glass, my eyes on Luke’s distressed face. He actually had lines on his forehead. When he didn’t say anything further, I pressed him.

“I know he’s stupidly naïve in many ways. And we both know he makes terrible decisions. But what in the world do you want me to do about it? I’m _out,_ Luke. Of my own free will. I’ve built a new career. I wrote a _book_ about him, for Christ’s sake! Talk about burning bridges!”

“You know, you had some really insightful ideas in this thing,” Luke sighed, holding up the book in front of his face. “I still can’t believe you weren’t trained in media or public relations.”

“That’s right, because I _don’t_ belong in that world,” I countered. Dinner suddenly didn’t seem so appetizing anymore. I pushed my plate of half-eaten Chinese to the side.

Luke threw the book on the table. “Oh but you _do,_ Kate. And you _know_ you do. The _press_ knows it. _Everyone_ knows it…you were the ingénue, the savior…he would have done _anything_ you said…”

His hyperbolic statements were pissing me off. I’d played savior one too many times and had gotten burned, badly.

_“Enough._ I know you have something to ask me, so just do it,” I whined. My fists were balled in my lap and I was rhythmically shaking my right knee. In only a matter of moments, adrenaline had spiked through my body – was it fear? Excitement?

_Probably dread._

“I’m sorry I haven’t been the most loyal friend to you lately, Kate. But I’m not used to dealing with the ridiculous level of media scrutiny and tongue wagging that’s been going on with him in recent months. He won’t listen to me. He thought he could maneuver this himself. He likes – _liked_ – her, she was fun, she was a quick escape after he’d been shooting for an entire year.”

_He sure loves those fun, quick escapes…_

I finished Luke’s conclusion myself, out loud. “And you’d like me to bail him out again so he can save face once the public does find out that this was indeed a relationship built mostly to raise his profile. Right? Because she’s controlling the narrative and will drag him through the mud when it’s over?”

I wasn’t even mad. Tom was so textbook that nothing surprised me anymore. Where emotion had once been, I was now functioning on autopilot when it came to him.

Luke nodded at me, his mouth hanging open at the fact that I’d basically just read his mind.

“Told you that you were obvious, Windsor. So, what is it? He and I become friends again and distract the public like we did in the olden days?” I scoffed, rolling my eyes.

He wouldn’t answer immediately. And when he finally did, it was vague.

“Not _exactly…”_

My exasperated stare spurred him on. Why couldn’t he just get to the damn point?

“We’d like to take it one step further,” Luke began tentatively. “The idea is for the press to ‘accidentally’ find out that you and Tom have rekindled your relationship and that his time with… _her_ …was just a diversion so you two could have more privacy this time around…resulting in an…engagement.”

The little blobs of red I’d seen behind my eyes earlier exploded into violent mushroom clouds.

“Are you fucking OUT OF YOUR MIND, LUKE?!” I yelled. “You want to cover up a fake relationship with ANOTHER fake relationship that used to be used as a – guess what – FAKE RELATIONSHIP whenever he did something idiotic?”

I hadn’t realized that I’d thrown my glass onto the kitchen floor and sharp, wine-drenched shards of glass were now sprayed haphazardly at my feet until I followed Luke’s gaze downward. He was very, very pale.

_Breathe…just take a few deep breaths and ask him to leave. Calmly._

“The public loves you,” he whispered, “people loved the two of you together. At the very least, it’s believable.”

“It’s absolute _amateur hour_ is what it is, Luke. _Christ!”_ I snapped, kneeling down with some napkins to begin soaking up the mess under the table. It looked as though poison was slowly unfurling along the tile of my flooring.

_Sinister._

As he knelt down to help me clean up the mess, I continued my rant. Whether I was stunned at the idea, insulted at the prospect of being used again, or reliving the hurt I’d suffered at the hands of…him, I didn’t know.

“Did he put you up to this?” I bit out as a small shard of glass sliced the side of my index finger. “Is this his grand, clever plan? Did he come up with this all by himself, too?”

Luke took hold of my bleeding finger, wrapping it carefully in a dishtowel he’d grabbed. He said nothing as he applied pressure to the small bleeding cut, shaking his head to signal that _no, it wasn’t Tom’s idea._

“He doesn’t know anything about this. He doesn’t know I’m here. In fact,” Luke helped me up off the floor and took the wet, glassy pile of napkins from my hands to toss into the garbage under the sink, “he doesn’t even know you and I are still somewhat close. I’ve managed to keep those two areas of my life separate, despite what you might think.”

I had nothing to say amid these new revelations, so I sat in my chair at the table, tearing the wrapper off a fortune cookie absently and cracking the two sides open to reveal a tiny slip of paper inside.

**There is only one happiness in life: to love and be loved.**

I crumpled up the fortune in my hand and threw it into one of the empty egg drop soup containers. Luke, sensing the wind was going out of my sails, rejoined me at the table and chose a fortune cookie of his own. I watched his face as he tore through the plastic cellophane, then grasped the two cookie ends and snapped precisely. His eyes darted across the little white fortune and I saw a hint of a smile appear on his face.

“I’m going to show you this fortune, as I think you need it more than I do right now,” he spoke in a measured tone. “And then I need to explain something to you. I think you need to hear it.”

The confusion on my face caused Luke to toss the fortune onto my plate of half-finished food. It landed facedown, and when I picked it up and flipped it over, I was surprised to see how short and to the point it was.

**Don’t panic.**

My former boss wasted no time. “This is awkward so I’m just going to dive right in. Do you remember the text that you saw when Tom came to stay with you in the Cotswolds? The one that he and I later figured out was the reason you left without saying a single word to him?”

The tears pricking my eyes surprised me. It still hurt – after a year. Everything still hurt. The memory was so fresh that I could remember the smell of his skin and the taste of his mouth on mine.

“Do you know who it was from?” Luke prodded.

I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to remember seeing those words on his phone, taunting me for believing I could actually trust Tom fucking Hiddleston. My mind’s eye showed them to me again, anyway.

 

_**Looking forward to working with you, handsome.** _

_**B xo** _

 

Shaking my head to try and dismiss the picture in my mind, I spat out a reply to Luke. “I don’t want to know and I don’t care, Luke. He’s a cheat and a liar. And he used me in as many ways as he could. We’ve been through this and I’m not doing it again. I’m not. I’m _done.”_ In my desperate attempt not to cry, I was sounding like a whiny, petulant child.

“It was from Brie Larson.”

I put my hands over my ears to ignore whatever else Luke decided to throw my way. He continued to talk, louder, while I debated whether or not to run upstairs to my bedroom and lock the door behind me.

“He and I both know how it looked to you, but I can wholeheartedly assure you that it was a misunderstanding of epic proportions. What do you know about Brie?”

_Beautiful._

_Young._

_Oscar winner._

_Filmed_ Kong _with him._

_Probably fucked him._

I said nothing.

“When she sent that text to Tom, they’d met maybe twice. And I can confirm this myself because I was present for the first meeting and set up the second for them.”

Tears had already spilled down my cheeks when I tried to answer Luke with as much scorn as I could muster. “So? What’s any of that have to do with me?” I hissed, wiping my cheeks. I searched for the wine bottle on the table but it was empty. I sighed in resignation.

“You’ve never met her, have you?” Luke spoke to me gently, almost humorously, and I wondered what was so goddamn funny about all this. “She’s happily engaged to her longtime boyfriend Alex. They’ve been together forever.”

My eyes watched as my hand mechanically crumbled half of my uneaten fortune cookie into crunchy dust.

“She also signs all of her emails, texts, and correspondence with _B xo_ …it’s not something she trots out for just one or two special people. She does it for _everyone.”_

Luke handed me his still mostly-intact fortune cookie halves. I quickly crushed them too, still silent in my chair.

“And if you’ve got two minutes, I want to show you something and then I need to be on my way back to London. Early meeting tomorrow morning,” he continued.

I didn’t budge when he slid his chair next to mine and pulled out his iPhone. I watched, half-attentively, as he queued up YouTube and searched for what looked to be like an interview with Samuel L. Jackson and some of the cast from _Kong: Skull Island_. He skimmed past the first few minutes of the video, the screen frozen as it buffered to skip ahead to the 4:38 mark.

“Listen,” he instructed quietly.

I was curious; I admit it. The gist of the interview was about the camaraderie and “fun” the cast had before and during the shoot for the _Kong_ film. Jordan Vogt-Roberts, the director, wanted everyone to feel extremely at ease with one another and relaxed onset, so from the first day of rehearsals and read-throughs, he encouraged all of the actors to reveal something extremely embarrassing about themselves to everyone else.

“ _What started to happen_ ,” laughed Sam Jackson, “ _was that everyone was telling these stories, making fools of themselves, and we all decided to give one another nicknames. Like, call signs, you know. This is a Vietnam War-era film, we wanted to feel like a band of brothers, so to speak…_ ”

“ _And sister!_ ” Brie chirped out, smiling at the applause that got her. She was cute, I had to admit.

Samuel L. Jackson continued: “ _So here I am, obviously already with a nickname from my past work…everybody out here calling me ‘bad motherfucker’…pardon my French and all…and John Goodman and John C. Reilly get coined with these real badass, serious nicknames, talking about their experiences on other shoots, and Hiddleston! Here comes cheery, happy Tom Hiddleston…_ ”

The cast started laughing here, knowing what was coming. And as the camera panned down the panel to capture Tom’s reaction to Sam’s story, my heart stuttered in my chest. He was still gorgeous as ever.

“ _So y’all know that Tom can sometimes be a little, uh, extra,_ ” Sam continued, laughing through his teeth, “ _and he’s telling this sweet, embarrassing story about how he was rehearsing for something one time and he thinks he’s all hot shit…and none of the ladies in this production he was working on gave him a second look – except for an 80-year-old grandma from Wales who was working on his costume all day every day. She used to…what was it, Tom?_ ”

Tom was blushing, looking down at his shoes, clearly embarrassed that Samuel L. Jackson was exposing his embarrassment as a young actor.

“ _She refused to call me by my name the whole shoot. Would only call me ‘handsome’ and she’d say it in this really raspy, inappropriate voice every time she saw me…just…’handsome’!_ ” he laughed, shaking his head in mortification. Here Brie piped up for the moderator.

“ _So we all immediately started hissing ‘HANDSOME!’ at Tom anytime we saw him…even the guys on the crew and the craft services people. We bombarded him with texts even before the shoot for Kong started. He hated it!_ ” she laughed.

The clip ended.

Luke pocketed his phone. I let the information I’d just learned sink in, taking a few breaths as Luke waited for me to find my footing.

“Either this is something elaborately cooked up to get Tom out of a situation that broke my heart, or…” I faltered.

“True story, Kate,” Luke replied. “Text messages lack context and nuance, don’t they?”

My heart was thudding in my chest.

_He hadn’t cheated. At least not with her._

“Why didn’t either of you try to tell me about this?” I stammered, staring at Tom’s confidant with searching eyes.

“He thought it was for the best. He knew he could never be what you needed him to be, so we agreed – he and I – that it was best to let you go and do what you wanted.”

I was shocked, to say the least.

_He hadn’t cheated. Not yet, anyway._

“We both know he went off the rails in more ways than one after you left. I was just sad that a small misunderstanding caused so much trauma for both of you,” Luke continued. “I know he’s largely to blame for your reaction – it’s not like he was the perfect person to trust. But after you left he was hell-bent on making his way in the industry, and he’s pretty much damned himself in the process.”

Still having problems adjusting to all the new information, I grabbed Luke’s elbow to stop him as he made to leave the table. “And you’re sure he doesn’t know about this scheme you’ve come to me about?” I queried. Dizziness began to flutter at the edges of my head.

“Not a thing. So I’m going to leave you to rethink my offer, knowing what you know now. I trust you with his career, Kate. And despite whatever you’ve told yourself – whatever he told you, or didn’t tell you, that man is _crazy_ about you. Always has been,” Luke finished.

I choked back a small sob.

Pointing to his fortune cookie paper that I still held in my palm, he finally stood, tossing me his trump card.

“You get to make all the decisions if you do this, Yankee. I’m letting you call all the shots. You get to make all the requests – everything on your terms. You let me worry about the rest of it.”

Looking down at the paper…

 

**Don’t panic**

 

…I stood and followed Luke to the door, asking him one final question.

“What do I get out of this, Windsor?”

He gave me a quick hug, pecked me on the cheek, pulled his car keys from his pocket, and wrenched open my front door.

“Anything you want, Kate. Thanks for seeing me. Call me tomorrow at the office after 10 if you’re interested.” 


	3. Take a Look What You've Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite her emotional tailspin, Kate is indeed calling the shots now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rubs hands together and cackles gleefully*
> 
> The only thing I'm loving more than writing this thing is the comments y'all are sending me. Wow. 
> 
> Talk to me!
> 
> xoxo

Sleep was apparently something that my body decided it didn’t need after having dinner with Luke. 

I had decided to go to bed early once I’d taken a long, hot shower and had a serious, logical sit-down-and-think session about what I’d just been told and what I was being asked to do. The emotional roller coaster that was dinner with my former boss had exhausted me; I felt like sleeping not too long after he left to return to London. 

Tired, clean, and somewhat relaxed, I’d settled into bed to try and forget everything that transpired over cold Chinese food and crushed fortune cookies. As soon as my eyes closed, my brain fizzed and popped with activity. 

_Call me tomorrow at the office after 10 if you’re interested…_

_Text messages lack context and nuance, don’t they?_

I squeezed my eyes shut harder as visions of Tom bombarded me: _our first meeting at the Tate, the kiss on the London Eye…_ Turandot… 

And then the other memories began – the ones I’d worked so hard to forget. 

_Tom between my legs in his kitchen._

_Fervently crawling into his lap after our first sightseeing “outing” together._

_Watching him touching himself when he returned home to find me, accidentally, naked in his bathtub._

_After the opera._

_The last stolen moments – heated flesh, groaned endearments, sweet sleep – of our time in the cottage before I fled._

Was it possible? Had his behavior toward me actually been genuine at the end? Was the love that I thought I felt from him during the Vanity Fair photo shoot _real?_ And the note he’d left for me months later…

  


_**I am so profoundly sorry for what has happened.** _

_**It will always be you, for me.** _

_**The true ‘look of love’, there…** _

  


Luke seemed to think Tom and I were capable of a viable relationship; why else was he throwing his ridiculous scheme at me? 

Growling at my inability to sleep, I wiped a hand across my face and reached over to turn on my small bedside lamp, then rooted down at the floor beside me to grab my laptop. Yanking it onto my duvet-covered legs, I booted up and put on my glasses while I waited.

“Well I guess it’s time to get _The Night Manager_ over with,” I murmured to myself, irritated. 

I’d had the miniseries downloaded on my iTunes since it debuted, but I hadn’t had the heart to watch it yet, as I’d done my best for almost a year to avoid anything that remotely mentioned Tom. This had proved harder and harder to do once he started his new relationship. The press blitz was unlike anything I’d seen from him before, pretty much confirming she was his puppet master. 

Sure, he made terrible decisions, and we’d put each other through the wringer, but there was no denying the man had talent: he looked the parts he played; he sounded excellent when he transformed into a new character. He’d always been a pleasure to watch, whether I hated him or not. But lately, Tom’s talent was obscenely overshadowed by his antics. 

For some reason, that thought angered me more than all the ire we’d ever spat at one another. 

His Emmy nomination for the role of Jonathan Pine, in light of current events, seemed now to both congratulate and ridicule him. Luke had basically explained that there was no way in hell Tom would win the award. And he didn’t mean because of the stiff competition within the category. But as I started the first of the six episodes, I felt myself softening toward him again. He surely deserved the Emmy nod: Tom was mesmerizing onscreen, as always. Able to emote a wide range of feelings, looking every inch the dashing night manager who tries to do the “right thing” – _was he a person capable of that?_ – and making me, the viewer, believe that he was playing a very dangerous game. 

Not unlike the current state of his romantic goings-on. 

Okay, maybe not _dangerous,_ but good lord, he’d really done it to himself. For someone who’d made an impression on me of a lothario/playboy/sex addict, it was hard for me to reconcile that idea with the man who’d gone swimming in the Atlantic wearing a stick-on tattoo and a publicity stunt “I Heart T.S.” shirt. 

Where was the man who leered at beautiful women and had on-set trysts with his costars? 

The person equally ravenous for work and women? 

Where was Mr. Sophistication who had routinely bought me expensive gifts from Lanvin, Cartier, and Agent Provocateur? 

Who was this “gentleman” inviting the paparazzi to intrude on his family? I’d worked beside Tom for months and months and never heard more than a _breath_ about his parents or sisters. 

And then I remembered, shortly after episode two began: 

_Tom Hiddleston is a master manipulator and liar._

If I thought teen princess Barbie was solely responsible for the embarrassment that was her arranged relationship, I was wrong. 

As Jonathan Pine transformed into Jack Linden, swapping one character’s personality for another, it hit home. Again.

_He lies for a living._

A spoiled rich kid who was so desperate to be famous-with-a-capital-F that he “turned himself around” and – real relationship or not – chose to date the music industry’s biggest name. Why wouldn’t he love it? From what I’d seen she appeared to foot the bill for absolutely everything. He was willing to go along with whatever she wanted – and it did seem that she followed a playbook of her own creation. Tom was flouting his (publicly) respectable image to accommodate. 

He no longer flew commercial.

He had the gall to allow her to accompany him on Marvel’s dime (an amateur move that anyone could tell was a bad decision) during the beginning of shooting _Thor: Ragnarok._

I laughed to myself at the irony of Norse mythology’s Ragnarok: the death of all, brought about by Loki. 

_How appropriate._

  


  


I spent episodes three, four, and five of _The Night Manager_ vacillating between complete and total engrossment, anger at the realities of my current situation, and disappointment at many things. 

Why is he so bad at playing this fame game? 

Is there no room for subtlety anymore? 

Why _her?_

What did he do so _wrong_ for the press to jump on him? For Armani to pass? For Bond to go wrong? 

_**Why didn’t he come after me?** _

The last thought stuck. Every time I watched Tom kiss Elizabeth Debicki’s character, or hold her hand, or send a loving glance her way, it echoed in the recesses of my mind. 

_Why didn’t he come after me?_

_Why didn’t he explain himself?_

_Would things truly have worked themselves out for us?_

  


  


I finished the final episode, six, and quietly shut my computer when the credits rolled. I was met with silence in my bedroom, and peaceful dimness beyond the windows. The time **4:07** flashed at me from my phone when I powered it up momentarily, and I was no more tired than I’d been almost eight hours ago. Rest wasn’t coming, and I’d just binge-watched an entire television series – to see his face, I realized. Remnants of my dinner conversation with Luke kept rummaging around in my head, and the world kept tilting and re-tilting on its axis. 

Did I hate him?

There had been a huge misunderstanding that could potentially change everything. 

Did I miss him? 

Not for as hard as I’d worked to distance myself and forget, surely? 

Was I jealous? 

Very much so. 

Could I be the one person who could get him out of this public nightmare he’d wrought for himself? 

It was a powerful feeling, the idea that he could need me to save him from himself – that after all had transpired, only _I_ could give him what he needed. But the lines between what Tom _needed_ and _wanted_ had always been blurred when it came to our relationship. And more often than not, as I’d discovered that first evening after the gala reception at the Tate, he got what he wanted instead of what was best for him. And the fallout was usually catastrophic. 

So here was what I kept tussling with, even as dawn began to creep through the wispy drapes in my bedroom with rosy-gold fingers: did I want to do this because of my pride? Knowing that I could fix this huge error in judgment to bring his career back to rights? Did I want to hold my help over his head in some sick desire to “win” and punish him for being so stupid and predictable? Did I want to make peace with the way things ended and forgive him? Worst of all, did I still have feelings for him, especially knowing what I now knew? 

_Yes to all._

  


  


Sleep finally claimed me at **6:22** , according to the timestamp on the email I’d sent to Luke. I had spent the early dawn hours hashing out what to say and how to say it to my former employer, and I was at turns bolstered by his promise that I could “call all the shots and get whatever I want” and frightened at the prospect of actually seeing Tom again and participating in the biggest charade of my life (and probably of his career, current shenanigans notwithstanding).

I wrote, deleted, re-wrote, deleted, and finally just threw everything into a rant-styled email that I’m sure, had it been written by someone other than me, would have been trashed without being read. 

But I knew Luke. 

This seemed to be his final strategy for helping Tom’s career. And for as close as the two of them were, I knew his concern wasn’t just coming from a business standpoint. 

  


  


_**To: “Luke J. Windsor” ljwindsor@prosperpr.co.uk** _

_**From: “Kate Michael” kmichael@gmail.com** _

_**Subject: Can’t Sleep** _

_Wow, Windsor. You’ve really fucked up my evening royally, I have to say._

_As you might have noticed, it’s quite early in the morning now and I’m sending this to you right before dropping into what I hope will be a dreamless sleep. I’ve been agitated since you left, and there’s no reason for me to tell you why. You already know that pretty much everything you told me (and showed me) has me questioning the last year of my life from beginning to end._

_I will say – AGAIN – that I think your scheme is the most fucked up, ridiculous, and shameful example of the Hollywood PR machine ever imagined. I stand by how angry I was that you even thought of it and mentioned it to me._

_But. You know him, and me, and our dynamic. You helped create us. And I agree that this is something that could potentially work. It has all the makings of great “theater”, as he would say. We have a reunion of epic proportions after a beloved couple wrongfully split up! We have the secrecy of a clandestine romance! We have everyone’s favorite “public image whitewash” #1: ENGAGEMENT (please don’t make me do whitewashes #2 and/or #3: wedding and baby edition)!_

_I also like to think I have better taste and a less in your face, white bread approach than Miss S._

_So…I’m going to do this for you. I can’t fucking believe it, and I know I’m inviting next-level scrutiny like I’ve never KNOWN, but I’ve stayed up all night remembering what great talent he has. I’ve examined my still very fresh feelings for him. And quite selfishly, I don’t want to see the good work I did for you, him, and Prosper get drowned out by his hasty, poorly advised decision to participate in what I’m henceforth calling “Summertime Stunting 2016.”_

_You told me I could call the shots and have whatever I want, so now’s the time when I make a bunch of outlandish requests/demands in a list so long and detailed I hope you refuse me and we never speak of this again._

_Ready?_

_1\. I want the highest-end engagement ring that you and he can procure. If we’re going to proclaim our “love” to the world, after all he’s put me through, I want an emblem that the paps can see from fifteen miles away WITHOUT their telephoto lenses. I promise to wear it as soon as I get it. You obviously know my size as you and he used to order me everything under the sun to wear._

_2\. Said engagement ring needs to have a flawlessly cut ruby at its center, surrounded by a halo of diamonds (I’ll leave the carat size and shape up to you; a girl needs to be surprised, after all). Why a ruby, you ask? Because this whole ordeal makes me SEE RED. The ruby is also a standard symbol of the 40-year anniversary, which is how long it’s going to take me to get over this whole car crash of a plan._

_3. There will be no social media presence from me. Ever. I’m not joining Instagram. I’m not getting on Twitter. I am an old, conniving hag and was growing up just as the internet became a thing. I write books and teach about them for a living, and I’ll leave it to pretty boy to be the one flashing his face around the web._

_4\. Regarding a rumor that I heard, I’m wondering if Tom actually saw a relationship counselor/sex therapist after I left. If this is true, I want some sort of confirmation (I don’t care how you get it) that he actually got something from the whole experience. If you can possibly swing it, get me details. Confidentiality be damned._

_5\. When you bring this up to him for the first time – if you haven’t already – I don’t want to be around for it. I can guarantee you that his stubborn behavior period isn’t going to be over anytime soon, no matter how much pressure he’s feeling from her camp at the moment. The later I see him, the better._

_6\. I’m not getting my family or his into this like Miss Junior America did. If the question arises about this peculiarity later from the public, we’ll deal with it then. You get to be the one to phone my family and explain to them what the fuck is going on._

_7\. Remember to recognize that I have my own job and life and I’m not moving heaven and earth for him, especially since this is all fake. PLEASE REMEMBER IT’S FAKE. You’re going to need to correspond with my department chair and get me out of departmental duties for a couple of weeks, with the understanding that I will still be teaching and conferencing electronically with my students during that time._

_8\. Those couple of weeks will be time off for me so I can take a trip with my “fiancé” to a remote, high-end Hawaiian resort, mostly so I can have the smug satisfaction of using both of you to take an expensive vacation. I’m going to need your company card to buy some new swimwear and cover-ups, also. Perhaps if you’ll arrange some spa time for me during this vacation, that could go on the card too._

_9\. He’d better behave himself. I’m not getting tangled up in any more emotional garbage with him. The resort room that you book better be a suite – separate rooms – because I’m going to be doing a lot of things alone while out of eyesight of the public._

_10\. I want to know your plan for getting me out of this alive when everything is said and done. My life was already practically ruined once; I’m not doing that again. What’s the end game?_

_If I think of anything else, dearest Luke, I’ll send it your way. I’m not calling your office at 10 am (I think it’s obvious I need sleep), so you either accept ALL of these conditions or I’m not agreeing to anything._

_You’re a cruel master._

_K_

  


  


My phone beeped loudly with a text message, causing me to startle and grab for it in a sleepy haze. It was a quarter to noon and bright sunlight was streaming in through my windows. 

_Thank god I don’t have office hours today._

The beep signaled an incoming text message from Luke. 

_**  
** _

_**Check your email. Go back to sleep.** _

  


I felt a nervous fluttering in my stomach at the realization that he’d bothered writing me an email. If he refused my demands, wouldn’t he just send me a quick “no” via text and be done with it? 

_This must mean that he’s actually going along with everything…_

I put my phone down on the nightstand, delaying whatever inevitable fate was about to come crashing down on me. Instead, I threw back the bed sheets and made my way to the bathroom to put in my contacts, brush my teeth, and wake myself up a bit more. 

Glancing into the mirror above my vanity, I was startled at the face staring back at me. My skin looked wan, and dustings of gray formed under my eyes. My face looked puffy, and it occurred to me that I’d spent some time crying throughout the night. This was what I had to look forward to: stress, more sleeplessness, and a return to the life that wrung me out emotionally time and time again. 

I washed and rinsed my face, took a few deep breaths, and headed back to bed to read Luke’s email. 

  


  


_**To: “Kate Michael” kmichael@gmail.com** _

_**From: “Luke J. Windsor” ljwindsor@prosperpr.co.uk** _

_**Subject: Re: Can’t Sleep** _

_Good morning, Yank._

_Well the fact you can’t sleep is a good indicator for me – you’re actually giving all this some thought. Didn’t I say this was a good plan?_

_I must say you’ve learned very quickly to make your demands and make them explicitly known. Did you learn that from us? For better or worse, here we go:_

_1/2. Ruby and diamonds in a halo setting? Check. I can send a list of preferred jewelers so you can choose what you like or he and I can do the guesswork and just buy you the biggest we can find. I’d say let’s arrange a public proposal or a spot of public ring shopping but I can already hear you slamming doors._

_3\. As long as you’re ok with him posting on social platforms, I have no problem with you staying quiet. You might even change your mind later, which I’m banking on._

_4\. Dr. Nina Hart has surprisingly agreed to speak with you about Tom’s six months – yep, you read that right, SIX – in relationship and sex addiction therapy. I’m literally jumpy-clapping at this next bit: when he initially completed his patient paperwork, he listed YOU as one of the people who would be allowed to receive information about his treatment. I know, right? I’m gloating over here, Kate. GLOATING._

_5\. I haven’t said a word to him about you, or this, yet. We’ve been too busy trying to keep our heads above water here. You and I both know, though, that once he hears of your involvement – even if it included drowning small helpless animals – he will be all in._

_6\. Give me the numbers and I’ll deal with it. God, you’re difficult._

_7\. See above._

_8\. Yes to two weeks in Hawaii. Yes to lavish spending on a resort and spa package. Does he get to pick out your swimwear? I’m kidding._

_9\. Yes to separate rooms. You do realize, though, that you can’t go two weeks avoiding him in the same suite, right?_

_10\. Your end game is different than mine. But I think we can agree that salvaging his career and trying to get him out of this situation is paramount. I’m also willing to pay you for your time. Like the old days!_

_I trust there’s more coming down the way from you later, but I think I’ve agreed to everything you want – and I do appreciate your willingness to do this. I know it hasn’t been easy on you, dredging all this stuff up and facing seeing him again. It’s going to take a little while to get stuff organized on our end, so you still have time before the circus begins, so to speak. I’ll be in touch._

_Luke_

  


  


I couldn’t believe it. 

He’d actually agreed to my outlandish requests. 

Anxiety roiled in my chest at the idea that this thing was actually going to happen. I crawled back into my bed, despite it now being lunchtime, and fired off one more text to Luke before going back to sleep for the remainder of the afternoon. 

_**I want an Elizabeth Taylor-approved ruby.** _


	4. Now We've Got Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke's plans are moving ahead, slowly but surely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad many of you are still with me! We're veering into primarily fictional territory from here on out (mostly) so those of you bothered by my CHARACTER'S attitude toward certain people/events won't feel so disgusted now.
> 
> Thanks for reading, everyone. Love you! Talk to me!
> 
> xoxo

_**That Was Swift! Hiddleston and Pop Star Shock Split** _

_**Daily Mail** _

_It seems as though Tom Hiddleston and his most recent girlfriend Taylor Swift are never, ever getting back together._

_Fans of the pop singer and the actor most famous for playing Loki in_ The Avengers _and_ Thor _films are sure to be shocked as the couple’s quick summer romance has cooled, chilled, and looks to be called off. Although tabloid stories and erroneous press reports have been flung around in recent months, the pair issued a joint statement via their representatives that does, indeed, confirm the split:_

_“We ask that the press respect our privacy at this difficult time. In recent weeks, it has become apparent to us that our work schedules and differing lifestyles are incompatible to the sustaining of a romantic relationship. We’ve enjoyed our time together and remain amicable.”_

_When the duo first played up to social media during the Met Gala earlier this year, there was much excitement surrounding what their evening of dancing meant; speculation was rife at the time that Swift was trying to exit her relationship with DJ Calvin Harris. Soon thereafter, infamous shots – presumably leaked by either Swift or Hiddleston’s camp – taken by conveniently placed paparazzi surfaced amid intense curiosity from the entertainment world. These first photos on the beach near Swift’s Rhode Island property were quickly followed by a plethora of leaked images, including memorable shots of the duo walking with Hiddleston’s family. The relationship raised excitement and ire in equal measure from both Hiddleston and Swift’s fan bases, prompting many to wonder if the romance was real or a publicity stunt._

_Aside from the pair’s joint statement, no additional information has been given. At press time, neither party had returned calls from the_ Mail _._

 

 

 

_**Blind Item** _

_**Shhh! News** _

_This famous musician has just recently extricated herself from yet another relationship – but something interesting happened after all the legal ramifications were ironed out at the end. She’s signed legally binding paperwork promising not to write any songs – in future, ever – about her most recent failed attempt at “true love”. This will be a first for her!_

_The agreement specifically states that this young lady cannot even ALLUDE to her former gentleman-lover or their summer tryst in her songs, or on any songs she writes/co-writes for other artists down the road. In fact, according to our legal experts, even if the content of the material is FAVORABLE toward the ex-boyfriend actor, she will still be violating terms._

_So, how does a guy with less star power and legal muscle than his ex-princess pull this off? He’d definitely be the first in a long line of celebrity males to do so._

_Easy: he found the means to blackmail her. He may play the sweet victim to his fans as much as she does, but he’s incredibly astute when it comes to getting what he wants (we’d like to think his upstanding education helped in this area) and he’s also a convincing liar. There’s a recording in the actor’s possession that apparently contains audio of our sweetheart bossing him around and using derogatory language that her fans would find extremely disappointing._

_Apparently she’s so worried about how she looks to her young audiences that she agreed to whatever stipulations the actor wanted in the end. Guess there won’t be any bad blood._

 

 

_**To: “Luke J. Windsor” ljwindsor@prosperpr.co.uk** _

_**From: “Tom Hiddleston” twhiddleston@gmail.com** _

_**Subject: Done** _

_Hey man,_

_Finally going to be home for a few days; I’m sure you know that I’m going to need a bit of a rest before I head onward to continue filming. Thanks for hiring extra counsel…we’ll talk more about that later._

_Can we have lunch tomorrow? I’m free all day._

_Tom_

 

 

_**To: “Tom Hiddleston” twhiddleston@gmail.com** _

_**From: “Luke J. Windsor” ljwindsor@prosperpr.co.uk** _

_**Subject: Re: Done** _

_Lunch anytime after 1:15. I’ve got a few things to iron out...and for god’s sake let me pick where we’re going! You always want to go to that disgusting hole in the wall near Chalk Farm. I have some things to discuss with you too. Glad you’re back._

_Luke_

 

 

_**Coincidence, Conspiracy, or Collusion?** _

_**Rumourroom.co.uk** _

_Dear Readers,_

_Boy do we have some news for you. And unlike the tabloids, daily rags, and various (sometimes not completely true) blind item sites, we here have verified, fact-checked sources that provide us with nothing but the best._

_By now, gossipers, you must know that one of the highest profile romances of the year has extinguished itself in a silent ball of flames. It started out red hot, faded into middling obscurity, and then stopped altogether when the flight plans didn’t quite coordinate. Whether PR sham or complete in-lust relationship, it’s officially over. Literally. Our sources tell us both parties have signed on the dotted line._

_Here’s where things get fun._

_We normally don’t keep too many tabs here at Rumour Room on the personal assistants or publicists of famous celebs. But, is it too much of a coincidence when, right after a highly publicized breakup happens, two members of the male’s entourage meet up after not seeing one another in almost a year?_

_Want names?_

_Luke Windsor…and Kate Michael._

_Are you freaking out as much as we are, darlings? Because this is too good to be true, regardless of WHY Luke Windsor went to his former employee’s house last week._

_Tom Hiddleston breaks up with his lyrical ladylove…and not a week later, Kate Michael is back (by varying degrees) in the picture._

_Let the squealing commence, dear readers,_

_Rumour Room_

 

 

 

_**Tom Hiddleston’s Twitter @twhiddleston** _

_Home for a bit of rest…then back to the God of Mischief! #Loki #ThorRagnarok #Australia #Marvel #MCU_

 

 

_**Taylor Swift’s Instagram @taylorswift** _

_Hanging with the squad! Love my girls!_

 

 

_**To: “Kate Michael” kmichael@gmail.com** _

_**From: “Luke J. Windsor” ljwindsor@prosperpr.co.uk** _

_**Subject: Moving Forward** _

_Well, I suppose you’ve seen the news. Or read it at least. Told you this was coming up fast, didn’t I? I’m still amazed he got out as unscathed as he did – don’t ask me how he pulled that off. Or perhaps it was the lawyers I sent to help._

_I’ve had lunch with him – very discreetly, of course – and presented my plan as simply as I could. Literally just threw it out there. After outlining the entire scheme, as well as your list of demands and your overall feelings about what was to come, the only thing he kept saying to me was, “You’ve seen her? She’s agreeing to WHAT? Why would she do that?” over and over in various permutations. He was stunned into silence at various points; I’m sure you know how unusual that is for our boy._

_Anyway…he’s going to be returning to Oz for a couple days of shooting before they have another break (production is on and off through November), at which time he’ll be home again in London town…and he’s already gone out to find your ruby-red sparkler. I’ll arm him with a list of the best jewelers and, according to him, he’ll “do the rest himself.” So I guess that means he’s full steam ahead with Operation Propose to You._

_Two other things before I forget: I told him you saw the YouTube video of the_ Skull Island _panel where Sam Jackson explained the whole “handsome” thing, and that you now know Brie’s text was as harmless as could be. Immediately, he wanted to get in touch with you. I mean, not_ five _seconds after I told him this, he asked if I thought it was a good idea to call you (your number obviously hasn’t changed), and when I told him I didn’t think it was wise just yet, he got really agitated._

_Any more strain and he’s going to end up in hospital, I think._

_So: here’s the compromise. I know you’re not ready to see him yet, even though this “thing” we’re doing looms overhead. I PROMISE to keep him away from Oxford for the time being – you have my word – if I can give him your address. He’s agreed not to visit and not to call, but wants to get in touch, I’m assuming, by snail mail. It’s low stakes for you both and I thought this would be an easy starting point. Thoughts?_

_Luke_

 

 

 

_**To: “Luke J. Windsor” ljwindsor@prosperpr.co.uk** _

_**From: “Kate Michael” kmichael@gmail.com** _

_**S** _ _**ubject: Re: Moving Forward** _

_Hi, lobsterback._

_Sorry it’s taken me a day or so to respond; start of term here on campus and I have been stuffed to the gills with syllabi and faculty meetings. It’s always the most hectic time of the year, if we don’t count finals. I’m to have a meal with my department chair and the dean of my college regarding my placement on the track to tenure. Should be an exciting time, although I hope my life doesn’t blow up between now and then. If and when I lose my job, I am going to make your life hell for the foreseeable future. Remember that!_

_It’s interesting that he’s being so cautious about me – especially after all we’ve been through together. But I guess the past is indeed history; maybe he no longer thinks me weak enough to take advantage of. I hope this is the case, and I hope he knows I’m doing this as a huge favor to his CAREER. I’m choosing to approach this whole thing like a job – like the job I used to do for you. The more you can stress that to him, the better._

_As for the ring – just make sure it’s sized properly and send it to me via courier. I don’t want any fake grand overtures or a public proposal or ANYTHING. Let’s try to make this as painless and non-awkward at all, please. Begging you on that one. I promise I’ll wear it from the moment I get it and won’t be a pain in the ass about getting photographed._

_As long as I have your word that he won’t come see me anytime soon or spring a surprise visit without any advance notice, you’re welcome to give him my home address. This doesn’t mean, however, that if he writes to me, I’ll respond. Make sure he knows that, too. Keep me informed. I’m trusting you._

_K_

 

 

 

_**To: “Kate Michael” kmichael@gmail.com** _

_**From: “Luke J. Windsor” ljwindsor@prosperpr.co.uk** _

_**Subject: Re: Re: Moving Forward** _

_He knows NOT to come see you under ANY circumstance unless I’ve directed you otherwise. Your ring was purchased today from a fine local jeweler in Kensington that’s noted for its discretion. Double-halo split-shank diamond setting and the ruby is an emerald cut. Flawless. I’m having it shipped directly to you. No fuss. Okay?_

_Thank you for agreeing to give your address. What you do with his communication is strictly up to you at this point. He owes everything to you._

_Luke_

 

 

 

I dropped my bag in the foyer and toed off my heels, the remnants of four courses’ worth of instruction muddling my brain at the end of a long weekday. It was a bad sign that university was only in session for a full week and I was already exhausted. But, first-year students will do that to you. Since I was relatively new on staff still, I was most frequently tasked with teaching some of the lower-level composition courses and the occasional introductory literature course. David was always careful to dangle one Victorian-centric course in front of me each term, just to appease me, and I lived for that course each week: for the higher-level discussion from upper-level undergraduates and grads specializing in anything 19th century related.

On days like today, Wednesday, when I had all my courses at once, I ran the gamut. My morning started with two sections of basic composition and argumentation. I held office hours, conferences, and lunched in my office until late afternoon. After this cool-off period, I returned to the lecture hall for one section of beginner’s literary criticism, and then I blessedly finished the day with “Gothic Romance and the Threat of Darkness” until early evening. This meant I returned home on Wednesdays no earlier than 7:30.

My students from the latter class had just begun to delve into Jane Eyre, one of my favorite novels to teach, and I had the motif of darkness already on my mind from the beginning chapters of Charlotte Bronte’s novel: poor Jane, locked in the red room at the hands of evil Mrs. Reed.

Red seemed to follow me everywhere these days; perhaps the ruby wasn’t the best choice? Was I trapping myself with the agreement to follow Luke’s plan? Forcing myself into an idea so claustrophobic that I wouldn’t make it out with my sanity? With my dignity?

Perhaps I was being dramatic; it seemed that Hollywood had rubbed off on me somewhere along the way.

Nevertheless, with these dark thoughts swirling around in my head, I was startled to hear a knock at my front door – just a few steps away from where I’d dropped my things in my desire to get comfortable and head to the kitchen for some food.

_It can’t be. I told him NOT to come here!_

Panic was throbbing in my pulse, and I had to will myself forward toward the door as a sharp set of knuckles rapped once more against the frame.

_What am I going to say to him? I’m not ready…_

I considered darting upstairs to my room and pretending I wasn’t home, but my foyer light was shining brightly. My car was in the drive. I considered calling Luke and telling him all plans were off – but he’d already purchased the ring. And the big breakup had happened. Everything was literally at a standstill until _I_ chose to move forward.

Against my better judgment, I wobbled shakily to my front door, wrenched it open with a dizzy sigh, and was greeted with a smiling elderly gentleman holding a bouquet of white tulips in front of my face.

“Delivery for you, ma’am. Are you Kate Michael?”

I nodded, my arms automatically reaching out for the elegant glass vase full of a dozen dewy flowers.

“Have a good evening, dear,” said the man sweetly as he carefully turned to leave, making his way back to the delivery truck from whence he’d come.

When my body got over its fear that Tom was on the other side of my door, I found enough of a voice to thank the deliveryman, wave politely, and go back into my flat.

Locking the door behind me, I immediately reached for the tiny card that was attached to the bouquet. My name had been typed on the front of the card. Walking to the kitchen, I turned on a few more lights as I went through my home, feeling suddenly ill at ease. I wasn’t sure why; perhaps the thought of being back in the public eye was already making me nervous.

And then I had a ridiculous thought: what if _she_ sent these? What if it’s some weird trap? My mind was scurrying around a dozen ludicrous possibilities as I placed the vase on my kitchen table.

Opening the little envelope with my name on it, I carefully slid the card from its hiding place and was met with some very familiar handwriting. The last time I’d seen it, it had been on a note that fell from the pages of _Vanity Fair_.

 

 

_**Hi.** _

_**Luke said no phone and no visit.** _

 

 

And that was it. No signature, because he didn’t need one. There was nothing pleading, or charming, or remotely “Tom Hiddleston” about the words. They felt friendly and straightforward, as though he wasn’t hiding from me.

Unlike the first time he’d sent me flowers – so long ago – these did not find their way into the trash bin.

 

 

Sitting at my kitchen table on Thursday evening, I was feeling an acute sense of déjà vu: I’d just gotten home (albeit earlier than the previous day), had made it to my front walk, and collected my mail from the box, when yet another unmarked item simply addressed, “Kate Michael” found its way into my hands. It was a standard envelope, but it contained no return information. I took one look at the beautiful white tulips in the bay window of my kitchen and began to slice open the envelope with my thumb.

Two things fell from the envelope: a small piece of paper, and a photograph.

Something extremely familiar struck me about the photo, so I naturally gravitated toward it first. Is it possible to feel déjà vu while experiencing déjà vu already?

The photograph was taken in a room of Tom’s house that I’d snuck into once before: his office. The last time I was there, I’d discovered the dirty little secret that he footed the bill for all the expensive clothes and jewelry I was given during my time at Prosper PR. But something was different about the office – and then I realized that it was a picture on the wall of Tom’s office right next to his desk, one that wasn't there before. It was the only neat place in the whole room (he had books and paperwork and boxes strewn all over that pit).

He’d had our _Vanity Fair_ spread blown up, enhanced, and framed. Me in all my green-and-gold-gown-clad glory, and he, looking at me in such a way as to cause the writers to caption us with “The Look of Love.”

The last time I’d seen those photos, I was holding my own copy of the magazine and bawling my eyes out, reading the last note from Tom I’d ever get.

Until now.

I picked up the overturned little sheet of notepaper and again saw that distinct, scrawling handwriting.

 

 

_**You were my greatest pride.** _

_**It’s been 372 days.** _

 

 

I didn’t have to count to know. It had been 372 days since I’d left him. I left the photo and the note facedown beside the flowers.

 

 

By lunchtime Friday, I was completely out of sorts. Friday was usually my favorite day of the week, for obvious reasons, but I hadn’t slept the last two nights, and I was dragging from the time my alarm went off. I continued to slog through a departmental meeting and two writing classes, and I finally decided to eschew office hours and go home to rest. I was tired, and conflicting emotions – some of them dormant for many months – were causing me a lot of torment. I was eager to get home and crawl into my bed, but I fretted the entire way there.

Would I have more mail from him? Would he finally ignore Luke’s request and decide he wanted to come see me?

I’d been silent thus far; maybe he was coming to try and wear me down?

Panic had me at the point of tears by the time I parked my car and grabbed my bags, heading toward my front door.

And of course, there was a small package.

_How much longer will this go on?_

It had already been three days but I was feeling the effects of his attention _immensely._

The box, I discovered, was a fairly light parcel that had been shipped from (where else?) London. I shook it in one hand as I opened my front door with the other, and it only made a soft rustling sound.

_Maybe this is from Luke…could be the ring._

I calmed at this thought and found enough momentary serenity to shed my bag and drop the box in the entryway. I breathed a few deep breaths as I made my way upstairs to change clothes and try to achieve a more relaxed state. I took my time washing my hands, scraped my hair up into a loose bun, and took out my contacts.

“It’s Friday,” I told myself, making my way back downstairs in yoga pants and a soft shirt. “Relax. It’s the weekend.”

With this soothing thought, I snatched the box with what was surely my ring inside of it and made my way to my home office area. Rummaging around in my desk, I found my letter opener and sliced through the packing tape holding the box together.

If I was honest, I was excited to see the ring. Luke knew my taste and the boys had made sure to order something that was up to my standards.

Tearing open the flaps of the box, I immediately knew there was no ring. Inside was a folded piece of fabric with yet another note on top of it. I didn’t even want to look at the note yet, because I knew it was obviously something else from Tom. So I grasped the fabric and hastily unfolded it to reveal a dark t-shirt with the _Legendary_ studio logo on the back and a huge image of the _Skull Island_ film poster screened on the front.

_Is he really sending me film merch now?_

The first two “gifts” had been sentimental, I’d thought. And despite the current maelstrom of feelings I’d been having, they had begun to soften me ever so slightly. But this – a t-shirt from a film he’d been in – was cold and impersonal.

I bunched up the fabric and threw it onto my desk, grabbing the note and skimming it in an annoyed, hasty manner.

_**Brie wanted to send you this as a condolence for putting up with me.** _

_**She offered to get in touch with you and explain everything, all those months ago.** _

_**I should have let her.** _

_No_ , I thought as I crossed the room and threw the note in the trash, _you should have explained it yourself._


	5. I Don't Think We Can Solve Em

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amid a restful working weekend, Kate receives some important deliveries from Luke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ready?  
> Thought so.  
> It's getting good.
> 
> Talk to me! I love you guys!
> 
> xoxo

Any emotions I’d been feeling from the past three days were swiftly pushed to the back burner after Friday’s _Legendary_ t-shirt and the final note from Tom. Whereas his first two bits of communication made me a little nostalgic – even sad – Friday’s just brought all the anger back.

_Why didn’t he come after me? Why was he willing to let Brie defend him instead of making things right himself?_

I had two answers to this question.

The first one was directly from Luke’s mouth several days prior: Tom thought it best to just let me go, knowing he could never truly be what I deserved. How true it seemed at the time; how true it probably was even now.

The second answer came to me out of nowhere; however, it made perfect sense.

_Tom doesn’t like confrontation._

When the going always got tough, or when our tempers became too volatile in the past, I could always sense his unease and his need to either flee a situation, or to provide a quick balm that wouldn’t necessarily “fix” whatever the problem was. I’d speculated for quite some time now that he had a lot of deep-seated issues stemming from his parents’ divorce, and the more time I’d spent with him (and the more time I spent reading about his latest shenanigans), this second answer seemed to complete the puzzle.

And so it was, late Saturday morning, that I decided to rid myself of all the feelings I had swirling inside of me about my former client – _boyfriend? lover? friend?_ – and focus on what I had to do. The most pressing thing, blessedly, was to prepare for my next week of teaching. The intro courses and composition sections were practically rote for me after teaching them for so long, so I wanted to delve deep into _Jane Eyre_ for my “Gothic Romance and the Threat of Darkness” course.

My students were still in the beginning stages of the book, but of course, from the get-go young Jane is put through one childhood trauma after another: the death of her immediate family, her punishing life with her Aunt Reed and nasty cousins, being trapped in what she feels is a haunted room, and being sent away to an unfamiliar environment in the form of Lowood School.

It had always been advantageous to me when teaching to make my lectures more relatable to students by interjecting various elements of popular culture (alluding to film, other novels, television, music, and the like) into my teaching so that more lively discussion could be drawn out of the listeners. As I began to outline the finer points of what needed to be covered in the first third of the novel, I realized that _Crimson Peak_ , of all things, would be a startlingly good point of comparison for many of my students.

The fact that I used to have a working relationship with _the_ Tom Hiddleston hadn’t escaped many of my students’ notice, and I was asked a lot about him in my teaching, to the point where I often had to dismiss my students’ questions so as to keep classes on track. But I realized that there were so many similarities between young Jane Eyre and Mia Wasikowska’s character, Edith Cushing, that it was an excellent time to talk about the film, about Tom’s character – the whole thing was rife with material for the characteristics and common motifs and symbols found within the Gothic genre.

I recalled Tom saying in many interviews that Guillermo’s film wasn’t necessarily a _horror_ film, but that it did contain ghosts; those ghosts helped to contribute to a love story – a gothic romance – that contained all the common tropes found in novels of the time like Bronte’s masterwork.

Jane Eyre and young Edith Cushing are both somewhat traumatized at a young age by sudden death in the family and the startling appearance of an apparition (whether real or imagined).

Jane Eyre and Edith Cushing both find themselves attracted to tall, dark strangers who hide more secrets than they reveal.

If I wanted to go one step further with the idea of childhood trauma in the lecture – Tom’s character Sir Thomas Sharpe was also an excellent example of the horrors to be found in the genre. Death of the family (by nefarious means, obviously, for those who’d seen the film), an unhealthy sexual fixation, and a number of sacrifices made to keep the family’s secrets obscured from view.

So here I found myself, trying to avoid thinking of Tom for what felt like the thousandth time, and I’m creating a marvelously fascinating lecture relating one of his films to the novel my students were currently delving into.

Would I ever fully escape him?

Of course not: if I really faced things head-on, I had to accept that he and I were about to find ourselves at a new starting point which might lead down a very long road. Just the mere idea of it filled me with a fresh wave of tension.

 

 

The lecture notes came to me rapid-fire after my initial realization that the film was an excellent talking point, and I had my work finished by early afternoon, just in time for a relaxing lunch. I made myself a plate of small snacks, as I was often wont to do (I preferred being a casual grazer to eating large amounts three times a day), and bit the bullet. Pulling up my iTunes, I skimmed the movie selections Apple had available for me and rented _Crimson Peak_. I hadn’t seen it since it came out (despite not wanting to, I was cajoled by some of my teaching colleagues in the Victorian Lit department) and wanted to have a fresh perspective on the film’s nuances for next week’s class.

And I wanted to see him. I couldn’t lie to myself about that.

But what could it hurt? He was playing another person, hiding behind his mask of talent. I was doing it for research purposes! It was really quite a beautiful film to watch, anyway.

As I munched on my bites of fruit and the crackers and cheese I’d made for myself, I took notes here and there about additional points I wanted to add to the lecture. The focus was quickly centering on the childhood traumas of both Thomas and Edith, and I could cull enough examples of the “darkness” motif to sprinkle throughout the lecture for next week quite easily. My plate was empty and I had a plethora of material for my class when the scene came up: Thomas and Edith snowed in together, sleeping together officially for the first time.

The food in my stomach soured, and I found I had to go to the kitchen as Sir Thomas crawled up Edith’s legs to make love to her. It didn’t make any difference to me that this was acting; I had been in Mia’s place and experienced something with Tom that was unlike anything I’d ever felt before. And despite running away from the situation and ghosting him completely (no pun intended, I guess), I couldn’t erase the fact that he and I had an extremely emotional and intimately physical relationship for a brief period of time. I still considered it one of the best moments of my young life: the satisfaction, the care, the feelings of safety and nurturing. I thought in those stolen moments at the cottage that Tom was showing me who he truly was, who he wanted to be for me.

Once the big “misunderstanding” happened – and I was finding that I truly believed the circumstances, now that I’d removed myself from the situation and could think logically – I doubted Tom completely. But it turned out he’d done nothing wrong once we’d entrenched ourselves alone together. I still couldn’t find any peace knowing this; after all, he’d been nothing but a manipulating playboy up until he realized I actually meant something to him.

It was hard to get over the sexual improprieties of our earliest meetings and his inability to keep his hands off of other women before we got “serious” (whatever that meant to him). If only I could figure him out. I’d wanted – needed – no gray area with him for the longest time, but that’s all I continued to get – even after our relationship was over.

The recent gifts hadn’t helped.

Where I had to look away when Sir Thomas and Edith made love, I found myself strangely absorbed in the final sex scene where Lady Lucille and Thomas’ incestuous relationship is revealed to the audience. I remember when I saw the film in the theater, I immediately knew that the “shocking secret” between the extremely close siblings would be an untoward physical relationship. It’s not an uncommon trope in the “family secrets” category of literature, and for a sister to be so possessive and, quite frankly, ragey and murderous toward her brother’s conquests, it’s a dead giveaway.

Watching Tom mouth at Jessica Chastain’s shoulder while she worked her lily-white hand into his trousers sent a flash of unbidden heat through my body; it left as quickly as it had arrived, and I was ashamed of myself for allowing that feeling for him to resurface.

_Stop it._

I worked to change my arousal to anger; I correlated Sir Thomas’ dishonesty toward Edith to Tom’s inappropriateness and caginess with me during the beginning stages of our relationship (working and otherwise).

The character manipulated his new wife for her money, just as Tom manipulated me for pleasure and success.

My hot-and-bothered state vanished immediately and I was able to finish the film in a detached, purely intellectual manner, laughing to myself thinking about the chapter from _Skilamalink_ where I boldly declared I could have marketed the film better than anyone else. I taught Gothic Romance, for Christ’s sake! And according to the parallels I was drawing between the film and my own pathetic past life, I had LIVED some crazy type of Gothic Romance, too.

It hit me that I was still living it once I remembered Edith’s ring from the movie: the Sharpe family heirloom was a large ruby.

Like my soon to be “engagement ring.”

 

 

 

My Saturday was relatively quiet once I’d finished the film and prepped my school materials for the next week; I did a bit of laundry and decided to settle myself on the couch in my living room to get ahead on a bit of reading for the Gothic course that would follow our study of _Jane Eyre_.

I’d decided to pepper several eras of Gothic literature into the course’s reading selections so as to demonstrate that the Victorian era was not the only time in which stories like _The Woman in White_ were written. This in mind, I’d decided to teach a highly popular novel by the famed British novelist Victoria Holt: _On the Night of the Seventh Moon._

I hadn’t thought much of it at the time when designing the book list for my syllabus, but as I began to read through the novel again for the first time in many years, I was reminded that Loki (styled as “Loke” in the book) himself is featured in the pages of the work I’d actually chosen at random, as it was an excellent modern example of elements of the Gothic Romance genre.

It seemed that I could never escape my attachment to Tom in all his incarnations, whether I subconsciously drew his memory to me or not.

Slightly annoyed with myself, I threw the book down onto an end table and contemplated the early dusk swirling through the Saturday evening air outside my windows. I could see a pale, milky half-moon shining onto the streets, lighting upon certain objects and obscuring others.

_Darkness. How appropriate._

With a scowl on my face, I made my way to the kitchen in search of a large glass of blood-red merlot wine. A bit of relaxation was my aim, as I was getting more and more upset with myself for seeing so many connections with Tom that I continued to allow into my life. I was willingly lecturing about his films, teaching books featuring the God of Mischief himself…Freud would have a fucking field day with me.

I’d poured myself a generous helping of wine and was padding back to the living room to attempt to reread Holt’s novel with a cool detachment, when I heard a soft beep echoing from my phone.

_He knows not to call. It won’t be him. It won’t be him._

I was practically praying that Tom wasn’t the sender of the text message that had just sounded on my iPhone. Moving to snatch it from the coffee table and swallowing a rather copious amount of wine at the same time, I found, with relief, that Luke was the sender of the message.

 

_**How’s my Yank this fine Saturday night?** _

 

I smiled a little at the fact that Tom wasn’t trying to contact me. Three gifts in a row had just about done me in. I replied quickly.

 

_**Not too bad. Just having some wine and prepping some work for one of my courses next week. What’s up?** _

 

It took Luke a little while to respond, and I continued to read for a short space of time before my phone sounded again.

 

_**Wanted to know if you’re free tomorrow. I have the ring and can bring it to you along with something else you’re going to want. Lunch or dinner?** _

 

Things all of a sudden seemed to move too quickly for my taste again: the ring was ready; Luke sounded like the plans were moving forward. I wanted to try and hold off as long as possible, and if I couldn’t do that, I wanted to minimize the amount of attention and speculation I knew was coming at me – _as long as possible_. I’d read the leak from _Rumour Room_ that detailed my original meeting with Luke and had been extremely paranoid about it.

Who’d seen us?

Were they lurking around Oxford all this time, waiting to catch me and try to get a statement from me?

Would I start being photographed again?

It had taken a lot of time and some not-so-stealthy work on my part to get the public interest in me to die down once I left Prosper (and Tom). My employers were happy to help once I got on board, but it had taken me nearly the whole year to leave my old life behind. Inquisitive students, colleagues, and a still curious press were constantly threatening my sense of peace and closure. I texted Luke a curt response.

 

_**You’re not coming here…sorry. The press found us once already (I’m sure you know this) and I want to hold off just a bit longer.** _

 

Luke was smart; he knew not to push me – for if he did, all bets would be off and this public relations nightmare that was supposed to save Tom’s career, image, and all future opportunities would be off the table. To his credit, he was immediately accommodating.

 

_**No problem. I’ve found a courier who will deliver the ring to you tomorrow morning. The other thing I’m sending should interest you more than the huge ruby – I contacted Tom’s therapist, Dr. Nina Hart, and was able to procure a summary of her session notes with Tom.** _

 

Now _this_ was interesting. He followed up with another message.

 

_**Quite enlightening reading, Kate.** _ _**You’ll probably want to sit with it awhile. And obviously, shred it when you’re done with it. I went out on a limb to get it to you in hard copy.** _

 

I was so stunned that he’d actually delivered on this part of my “request list” that I couldn’t say much other than a trite _“thanks”_ before he ended our conversation for the evening. Sleep wouldn’t be easy to come by tonight. I wanted to know what this woman could have possibly drawn from a man who lived on his charm and his ability to lie.

 

 

My doorbell rang early the next morning and I knew that the only reason someone would be trying to contact me on a Sunday was that they were delivering very sensitive materials via the instructions of Luke Windsor.

I stumbled sleepily down my stairs, barely fitting my glasses on my face before I wrenched open the front door to see a smiling young man in a uniform, holding out an electronic signature reader for me to sign.

“This is for you, ma’am,” he smiled, thrusting a large box into my hands, not unlike the box that Tom had sent to me on Friday.

“Thank you,” I smiled, still in a bit of a sleepy haze. I had tossed and turned for a good portion of the previous night and was bleary-eyed and fuzzy-brained.

The kid gave me a polite nod as he walked back to his delivery van and sped away.

The knowledge of the contents of the box spurred me into a more wakeful state quite quickly, as soon as I got back into my foyer and closed the front door. I was so ready to see everything – even the ring that was going to change my life, quite possibly for the worse, again – that I tore through the packing tape immediately and plopped myself down on the couch to reach into the box.

Being the sophisticated girl I still believed I was (had I really worn couture to work only a year ago?) I went for the jewelry box first.

It was a deep, onyx black box with silver foil-stamped lettering on the front bearing the retailer’s name. I was expecting Cartier or Tiffany or something high-end. But Luke had mentioned that Tom went to a specialty jeweler. Even the lettered script on the box screamed “Gothic” (another coincidence that set little goosebumps along my flesh):

_**AMOR AETERNUS** _

I didn’t know much Latin, but I’d read enough in my lifetime that I could piece together my knowledge of common affixes to know that the store’s name was “Eternal Love.”

_How interesting._

Lifting the lid of the box, I gasped. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting as I’d given Luke explicit instructions regarding what the ring needed to look like, but my mouth fell open at the sight. A swollen, _immense_ emerald-cut ruby – with heirloom quality clarity and cut – was surrounded with two haloed rows of pristine pave diamonds in a split-shank style band. It was exactly what I wanted, shallowness be damned.

Without thinking about the true meaning of what I was doing – what I was agreeing to – I slid the sparkling jewel onto my ring finger, watching as the morning sunlight caused the ruby to flicker in a sensual manner. It reminded me of the honey-slow flow of blood, or conversely, the palpitations of an aroused heart.

I wasn’t sure whether to feel like a modern, heroic Edith Cushing or a damned Lucille Sharpe.

Curling more comfortably onto my couch, I took a few moments to rotate my left hand and become accustomed to the weight (both actual and metaphorical) of the gemstone. It was truly flawless and beautiful. But what it was going to represent in the coming weeks – perhaps _months_ – was nothing more than a cheap lie. A flawed plan, no doubt.

Leaving the ring on – I had to get used to it, after all – I reached for the manila envelope that was also ensconced in the packing box. It was thinner than I’d imagined, because I was expecting an entire six months’ worth of case files on one of the most famous actors in the world.

Or maybe that was giving him too much credit.

Instead, Dr. Nina Hart had addressed the accompanying documentation directly to me with a short note:

 

_**Miss Michael,** _

_**I trust that you will destroy these documents or keep them in a secured place as soon as you’ve finished with them. While I am not breaking confidentiality strictures in sending this to you, my business does pride itself on keeping the circumstances of our clients’ sessions extremely private.** _

_**Mr. Hiddleston signed paperwork at the start of his treatment that afforded a few people access to his records and you were the first name on his list. If you have any questions or would like to discuss this summation of information more directly with me, please don’t hesitate to call.** _

_**I’ve enclosed a business card with the items in the envelope.** _

_**Regards,** _

_**Dr. Nina Hart** _

_**BACP Certified Counselor** _

_**BASRT Sex Therapist** _

 

It remained of great interest to me that Tom had the foresight to list me as one of the recipients of his medical information.

Could he have known that this would happen? Surely not.

I figured Luke was another name on the list, but who else, if anyone, might he have given access to? He was private when he wanted to be, and I knew this whole therapy situation was a decision he’d made – most likely in shame – after he’d reached the end of his proverbial rope.

The ring glinted as my hands put down Dr. Hart’s missive and picked up the thin sheaf of paper that contained what appeared to be a brief but extremely informative run-down of Tom’s therapy sessions.

 

_**Subject is mid-30s, white male, college educated and works in the entertainment industry** _

_**Middle child between two sisters with strict paternal influence** _

_**Childhood trauma first encountered: age 12 – mother and father divorce** _

_**Subject is away at boarding school and must learn to cope on his own** _

_**Seeking pleasurable experiences from a young age to encourage pleasure chemicals (dopamine) and cope with difficult situations - runner/sports (rugby) - moderate to heavy drinker - eats fairly healthily but fixates on sweets (chocolate) - creates a persona of extreme sociability to be well liked In adulthood** _

_**The need to seek pleasurable experiences masks: inadequacies when compared to peers/contemporaries, disapproval from paternal influence(s), fear of abandonment stemming from divorce trauma** _

_**THE MOST PLEASURABLE EXPERIENCE SUBJECT CONTINUALLY ENGAGES IN IS SEX - flings and various sexual partners fulfill the need and prevent attachment or feelings of fear regarding abandonment or disillusion with subject (from partners) - access to multiple experiences and partners fostered by career and lifestyle (film sets, social gatherings) - access to money aids in debilitating the subject’s impulse control regarding risky sexual behaviors - subject will usually cheat to “avoid uncomfortable emotional entanglements” and to avoid the sexual partner(s) from doing it first and hurting the subject - becomes a cycle of self-loathing and self-sabotage after the cycle completes itself each time** _

_**Treatment summary: The patient has completed, showing significant growth and success, six months of cognitive behavioral therapy to uncover the issues preventing him from reaching a more healthy approach to sex, relationships, and living with balance. Once initial childhood trauma is revealed and understood, the patient has a starting point for figuring out how to re-wire the brain and cope with past situations that do not necessarily need to impact the present and future. L** _ _**ow dose Prozac (20 mg) has also been prescribed for the patient to take orally 1/day. In smaller doses of this type of pharmaceutical, patients with impulse control issues and behavior problems stemming from anxiety (related to earlier trauma) typically achieve a high rate of success at rationalizing risky or detrimental behaviors and can control reactions to stressful or triggering situations.** _

_**Follow up in six months’ time. NH** _

 

I read it three times, there was so much to take in. And I wasn’t a little smug, considering I’d pegged him as a commitment-phobe all those months ago based on his needy middle child “syndrome” and the fact that he’d been blindsided by a divorce right on the cusp of becoming a teenager.

But, having a therapist outline all the ways in which Tom’s childhood “upset” had branched into a rather extreme adulthood full of compulsions and rash behavior made me see him in a new light. Not everything was entirely his fault.

He was responsible for his own decisions, whether they were admirable or not, but when the harsh, competitive reality of the movie business is added to the low self-esteem and the need to avoid triggers and seek only enjoyable things, he was practically asking for trouble since day one.

The glimpses Tom had shared with me of what I believed to be his true self – in our most intimate moments alone – were what he could be on his best days, I realized. Without fear of being hurt or needing to chase away any type of confrontation or feeling of inadequacy, he could be a good partner.

 _Don’t go there,_ I thought, as the ruby ring winked at me.

I took it off and laid it gently in the black velvet cushion of the box.

 

 

The impulse was so fleeting that I latched onto it before I’d even gotten the chance to stop myself.

I texted him right before going to sleep late that night, after everything I’d read about his therapy had rummaged around in my brain all day.

The ring was now safely ensconced in its packaging on my bureau in my bedroom, hiding its passionate yet sinister red glow under the _AMOR AETERNUS_ lid.

 

_**Tom…I just read through Dr. Hart’s session notes. I’m proud of you.** _

_**Kate** _

 

Figuring he was working late or out partying or doing some untoward type of pleasure-seeking activity – _don’t go there_ – I didn’t expect a response and promptly set my phone alarm and settled down to sleep. I had an early class in the morning.

He responded almost as soon as I’d sent the text.

 

_**It was difficult. But I’m glad I did it. She helped me confront some things.** _

_**How are you? :)** _

 

I’m not sure what I expected him to say – whether he would plead or try to be flirtatious or his old sly self, but his straightforward kindness caught me off guard. I aimed for friendly but to the point.

 

_**I’m doing all right. Early morning teaching tomorrow. The ring came today…beautiful.** _

 

He was typing back as soon as I hit the SEND button.

 

_**Do you like it? I had them check the sizing several times because of your delicate little fingers. Need it modified?** _

 

It was all a very calm interaction, and the only hint of emotion was his reference to the size of my tiny hands. Said hands used to run through his hair…curl around his back…

_STOP IT._

 

_**Size is perfect. Gorgeous ring.** _

 

I almost hit send but got brave and added something else. The beating around the bush was only good for so long. I was impulsive to the nth degree tonight, it seemed.

 

_**Did you sleep with Taylor?** _

 

Six months ago, I would have been slightly ashamed at the forward nature of my question; however, Tom and I had been through a lot, and I think I’d earned the right to ask whatever needed to be asked, especially since I was essentially agreeing to save his public image and his future in Hollywood.

 

_**Not once. Wasn’t that kind of a relationship, as you well know. Dr. Hart didn’t mention that I haven’t had any sexual relations since I started therapy, did she? That was a condition I agreed to.** _

 

I needed a moment to compose myself. He had gone without of his own volition – and for all intents and purposes had been able to do it. He could practically hear my mind churning, as he sent an additional message.

 

_**I know what you’re thinking…the meds do help with overly impulsive and irrational compulsions. I don’t have as many heightened feelings to run away from now :)** _

 

An entire exchange without threats, seduction, innuendo…it was a first for us. We’d truly only communicated through rage or physical acts, and our communication now was severely restricted (and medicated on one side). I felt myself relaxing slightly.

 

_**I know I’ve said this, Tom, but I am proud of you. I’m glad you’ve gotten some help and it seems to be working. Goodnight.** _

 

I turned out my bedside lamp and finally prepared for sleep, my mind somewhat eased at the prospect of what was ahead for me – for him too – and read his final message.

 

_**I didn’t do it for you.** _

 

How ashamed I was when a little frisson of hurt went through me at his words. I still had my pride, after all, and I would be lying to myself if I thought I didn’t want to be even a tiny reason as to why he sought help for the disastrous way he coped with his life (and interfered in mine).

But he was right – he had to do this for himself, for purely unselfish reasons. He needed to separate himself from all other entanglements so he could truly examine what he was about, what he needed, and how he would achieve said needs – without the influence of another person.

I elected not to text back, as my eyes were getting heavy and I didn’t really know what to say to his frank admission.

And yet, when I awoke the next morning to get ready for work, I saw that he’d sent an additional text right as I’d fallen asleep.

 

_**I did it for me, but also with the hope that there could be an ‘us’ someday. Sleep well.** _


	6. You Made a Really Deep Cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected reunion occurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been cackling with glee all week, my darlings. It seems my fictional work is doing fairly well at predicting the outcome of Tom's life - and he is once again single and ready to mingle.
> 
> With my OFC.
> 
> Sorry you had to wait so long!
> 
> xoxo

Tom’s final text stayed with me all through my morning ablutions and as I drove to work.

The word “us” echoed in my ears as I walked from my parked car along the sidewalk and into the imposing stone building of my college.

I grappled with myself the entire winding walk up the staircases to my office, wavering back and forth between wanting to continue our conversation or letting things lie for the time being.

What else was there to say? I for once felt as though he and I were on even ground; there was no fighting, no one-upmanship. We were being civil and kind to one another – me because I _genuinely_ felt that he deserved it, and he _despite_ knowing that he wasn’t going to get anything physical from it. It was a new feeling. It was strange.

The unnerving thing was that I had no idea where Tom’s newfound politesse was coming from – was this a direct effect of six months of therapy? Was he feeling chastened after the media basically dragged him through the mud for agreeing to be next on her list of trotted-out boyfriends? Did he realize what I was about to do for him and his career?

_Probably all three, most likely._

Our exchanges felt as though they were made of the thinnest, most fragile gloss of spider’s thread – easily breakable. It would only take a faint wind to destroy whatever truce was developing between us.

I decided to remain quiet.

 

 

“We really couldn’t be more pleased with your work, especially since this is only your first year with us,” remarked Jane around a mouthful of salad.

“Well,” I countered, “I’ve obviously been teaching for a few years, but the American style of higher education learning is vastly different than in the UK. The focus here on independent student inquiry and what you all have loosely deemed ‘the workshop method’ really lends itself well to my lectures and classroom environment.”

Jane Carter and David Layne were both seated across from me in the pub, smiling into their lunches at what was obviously a mutual feeling of good fortune that I’d worked out in the position for which they’d hired me.

“We often flag prospective faculty applicants early on in the process,” David explained, “letting them know they’re viable for the tenure-track and giving them a heads up as to what is required in the coming months and/or years. But we wanted to know, on record, if you were interested in pursuing the path before the option is offered to you.”

I smiled at my superiors gratefully, thankful that two esteemed individuals felt I was of enough importance and pedigree to have a “home” within their institution.

Oxford felt like a good fit for me: I’d taken to the university’s teaching tenets and environment as though I’d been there for years. The students liked my classes, and the longer I worked with them, the more I realized that they were enrolling with me not because I’d been “famous” for 12 months of my life and knew Tom Hiddleston, but because I offered fascinating courses with dashes of popular culture and modern-day relevance.

Taking a sip of my drink to give myself a moment, I knew that I would accept the tenure-track probationary period being offered. I was doing what I truly loved – teaching – and it was something I excelled at.

Luke’s voice suddenly echoed in my head.

_…you were the ingénue, the savior…he would have done anything you said…_

There I sat being offered some of the best news of my professional life, patting myself on the back that I could do my job so successfully, and my mind immediately wandered to how successful I’d been at other ventures: how successful I was supposedly going to be at resurrecting Tom’s public image.

“We don’t want to push you too hard to decide right this minute,” Jane’s voice broke my momentary reverie. “Just wanted to test the waters with you, so to speak.”

She and David were apparently viewing my silence as indecision. I capitulated quickly, plastering a smile on my face and vowing to ignore the pressing feeling in my eyes and temples.

“No, please,” I held out my right hand in a _pause_ gesture to stop her from taking away the opportunity. “I will gladly accept the track you’ve both chosen for me and will be happy to do whatever is necessary to begin the process. It’s truly an honor that you both even consider moving me upward in this way.”

David and Jane looked pleased as they continued to finish their lunch plates, but it didn’t escape my notice that a slight tremor of hesitance kept flitting back and forth between the two of them. It was in the way they kept casting glances at one another as if they were hiding something, or reluctant to add something of importance to our meeting conversation. My stomach flipped a bit with nervousness at what was going unsaid.

Was there some sort of catch to this new tenure-track position? Perhaps this was only happening because of my increasingly well-known name instead of my talents in the academic world? Had _Skilamalink_ destroyed my credibility with the institution? Couldn’t be. I’d successfully merged the entertainment sphere with a background in fly-by-night public relations and years of careful literary study. Every review of my book was at the very _least_ positive with regard to the material. If nothing else, many students I knew personally were reading something they’d not normally put hands on – Victorian-tinged literary analysis at its most veiled and entertaining.

David cleared his throat once he saw me staring at both him and his colleague. He knew I could tell something was slightly off about the new, uncomfortable silence our lunch had become.

“I’m just going to come right out and say it, Kate. Please know that what Jane and I are now going to talk about has NO influence whatsoever on our decision to offer you tenure. Your student evaluations are glowing, your colleagues get on with you well and are constantly praising your work ethic and contributions to the department…you’re irreplaceable to us. It’s just that…there’s some new developments we need to discuss.”

I knew what he was going to say before he continued and I felt my skin go clammy.

Luke had apparently started our plan into motion.

“Your former boss contacted Jane and me, individually, several days ago to discuss some highly sensitive information,” he began.

David wasn’t frowning and didn’t seem upset, but he sounded a bit tentative, hesitant. As if testing the waters.

“We were both faxed some non-disclosure agreements before anything specific was discussed,” Jane added, “but once we read and signed, David and I were made aware of your exciting news.”

_What?_

“How thrilled you must be to be engaged,” David spoke warmly, if not quietly. “We really had no idea…goes to show all of us how quiet things can be kept in show business if people really want to stay off the radar!”

He signaled one of the wait staff for the lunch check and then, oddly on cue, both he and Jane tilted their heads down to examine my left hand, which was nonchalantly resting on the lip of the table. In the bright overhead lighting of the pub, my ruby flared with fire and sparkle, accented by the tiny rows of winking diamonds around it.

Yes, I’d taken to wearing the ring just as I’d promised Luke, but didn’t feel the full physical weight of it until now.

_How much do they know? Did Luke explain everything to my bosses, or are they just as gullible as the public?_

The ring wasn’t as sentimental to me as it seemed to be to the two people sitting across from me. I knew the actual intent behind the ring – it was merely a physical manifestation of a business arrangement – and aside from its beauty and price tag, it didn’t make as much of an impression on me as it obviously did on Jane and David. The two were smiling widely at me, but in a conspiratorial way. They must have felt they were “let in” on the secret. The pathetic part was that they only knew whatever Luke had chosen to reveal to them – solely for the purpose of allowing my sabbatical to Hawaii.

I felt myself blushing, but it was more of a sensation of nausea and guilt rather than excitement and pleasure associated with the head-rush of love. Fighting down a feeling of panic, I put on my best PR-trained face and feigned quiet euphoria.

“Oh, _goodness,”_ I breathed with a convincing titter, “I had hoped this would stay quiet a little longer, you know…we’ve only just told our families and are hoping to keep things relatively ‘down low’ for as long as possible…” I trailed off, not wanting to reveal too much.

How much had Luke said? What was in the NDAs? Hopefully I could get Jane or David to reveal some of the answers to my questions.

“Please, please don’t worry about either of us breaking confidentiality,” Jane smiled, and David nodded in agreement. “We know that you’re going to be taking a bit of a physical break from the classroom to get away with Mr. Hiddleston for a few weeks, especially since you two haven’t been allowed to see one another publicly in the last several months.”

_So they’ve totally bought the whole “Taylor was just a cover” story…interesting._

David picked up where Jane trailed off.

“Your former employer, ah, Luke Windsor, right?” David raised an eyebrow in query until I smiled and nodded, urging him on. “He mentioned you’d still be working remotely with your students and would be holding electronic office hours, etc. Correct?”

I felt comfortable enough with David Layne that I patted him on the hand good-naturedly, laughing a bit.

“David, just because I’m going out of town to celebrate with Tom,” I had to fight down a tiny sense of rising hysteria at my words, “doesn’t mean I’m dropping the ball here at work. Understood? And please let me know if you prefer we make alternate arrangements. I certainly don’t have to be gone, but we think it’s a wonderful way to celebrate an engagement that’s been in the works for a long time. I’ve never been to the Hawaiian Islands.”

_Christ, where was all of this bullshit coming from? ‘Been in the works for a long time?’ Jesus._

Jane was practically squealing at the romantic picture I’d painted: a reunion, an engagement, a romantic getaway to Hawaii. David laughed at his colleague’s decidedly feminine reaction to the confirmation of my news and paid the check for our lunch. “Wouldn’t have it any other way for you. Our congratulations are in order!” he said with finality as he signed his receipt and pocketed his credit card.

_I guess I get my vacation after all._

As we were leaving our table to return to campus, me trailing behind the two of them, I marveled at how easily the lies had slipped from my mouth.

The ruby winked at me devilishly as soon as I walked out the pub door into the sunshine.

 

 

“As many of you are aware, and if not before this course, then hopefully at the end of it – one of the most classic archetypes in Gothic literature is that of the tall, dark, man, sometimes handsome, who may or may not be hiding something,” I strolled around the classroom, wiggling my eyebrows on the words _hiding something_ for emphasis. A few of the students laughed, relaxing into the beginning stages of our Wednesday evening session.

“Earlier versions of this idea are also referred to as the ‘Byronic hero’. Obviously we’re going to throw Edward Rochester at the top of that archetypal list, since we’re getting our _Jane Eyre_ on…but who else can we add?”

Students began blurting out responses, just as I’d hoped. The upper-level courses were always so much more rewarding in terms of student participation.

“Heathcliff from _Wuthering Heights_.”

“Uhm, does the Phantom of the Opera count? What was his name in Leroux’s novel? Erik?”

“Thomas Shelby from _Peaky Blinders_ , right?”

“The evil priest from _Hunchback of Notre Dame_! Claude Frollo!”

I was writing down all the allusions on the board at the side of the room, nodding excitedly at all the connections that were being drawn from modern and past popular culture – in literature, film, and television. One student even started humming a variation of the _Peaky Blinders theme_ , the song entitled “Red Right Hand”. I faintly remembered a re-worked version of the song that had appeared in one of the trailers for _Crimson Peak_.

“What about Roderick Usher, from Poe?” another grad-level guy added. I nodded, writing.

“Severus Snape,” one of my favorite students blurted. She was a tiny slip of a girl with large, round glasses who loved anything and everything in the young adult literature realm. Her answer was a stretch in terms of time period, but it fit the bill.

Variations on the theme continued: Batman/Bruce Wayne, Michael Corleone, V from _V for Vendetta_ , and Lucifer from Milton. We were reaching beyond the Gothic timeline in all directions, but the idea was universal.

“Thomas Sharpe. _Crimson Peak_.”

To my credit, I no longer became embarrassed or froze whenever a student (usually female) made mention of Tom or one of his characters. I quickly added the example to our growing list and turned back around to face my students, and to search for the source of the deep male voice that had offered up this latest suggestion.

It was no wonder that my class of about thirty-five had suddenly turned silent.

He’d snuck in, hiding best he could in the back row, back corner of the room. His long legs barely fit under the desk.

Time seemed to stand still – for me, at least – as he slowly smiled at me. It was a smile of encouragement, not the usual leers or overall appraisals I used to receive.

The students weren’t sure whether to approach him, or if I was going to say something, or what exactly was happening – I think some of them thought I’d invited him and it was all a big, charming surprise. But my mind was whirring with how to handle the situation in a professional manner.

I didn’t want to lose the upper hand in our “relationship.” I had a class to finish teaching. And he knew he wasn’t supposed to come. That was the part that niggled at me. Was he getting brave? Or did Luke think I would try to avoid him and thus goaded him into surprising me at work?

My handful of years of impulsive teacher instinct kicked in and I raised a careful eyebrow at Tom Hiddleston, now suddenly one of my class attendees, and gave him a smirk. Hands on my hips, I noticed that his eyes darted faintly to the engorged gemstone adorning my left ring finger.

“I’m so _pleased_ you decided to show up for class this evening, Mister Hiddleston. Everyone must be thrilled that you deigned to grace us with your presence.”

It came off a bit rude, so I threw in a chaste wink and smile as a balm after my comments; some of the students chuckled quietly, turning their heads to glance at him every so often.

Tom had the grace to lower his head bashfully and smile, biting his lip a bit at being called out so forcefully.

The lecture continued in its usual relaxed manner, with the students helping me commandeer a ship that we were all on together – exploring the text of Charlotte Bronte’s masterwork, delving into real-world and popular culture tie-ins, and focusing on the recently established dynamic between Jane and her new employer, Edward Rochester.

Discussion veered toward the idea of Jane as the strong, Gothic heroine, something we’d touched upon briefly in a previous session but hadn’t analyzed too deeply until her current arrival at Thornfield. Somewhere in between the back and forth, a student turned to Tom – a beautiful blond girl, of course – and asked him to weigh in on his interpretation of Edith Cushing as Guillermo del Toro’s modern take on the characterization of Jane Eyre.

He smiled politely at her and, asking her name, confessed that he felt out of place barging in to what was already an insightful, collegial talk. I took a casual seat atop a table at the side of the room, gesturing in what I hoped was a welcoming manner.

“No, please, Tom. I think it’s safe to say that everyone here is interested in your ideas related to our course. You obviously have a lot of background and insight into Lara’s question.”

The Tom Hiddleston of many months ago wouldn’t have even waited for my go-ahead, but this version of him took a few moments to collect himself, almost as if he was surprised by my approval. He didn’t do any of the things I thought he would – he didn’t stand, or move to the front of the room, or puff himself up as he began to interject his own thoughts into the lecture. He simply remained relaxed and seated at the back of the room, offering up a few of his own observations. Whether or not the quiet politeness was for show, I appreciated that he wasn’t taking over my class with his knowledge – or his personality.

Many times during the remainder of class, if something was directed at him, he would respond momentarily, just enough to continue the forward motion of the conversation, but would quickly redirect to either me or to another student. It made me realize how natural he would have been in a classroom of his own.

_Perhaps that’s part of his father’s disappointment. So much potential wasted on trivial things._

I felt his gaze on me as I wrapped up the night’s session, assigning the final third of _Jane Eyre_ and a beginning portion of _Mysteries of Udolpho_ for the following Wednesday. The students were packing their bags, some of them tapping on their phones, and others talking to one another animatedly as they left the room.

Only one or two stopped to try and have a word with Tom. He was friendly and polite, but it was curious: he refused to sign anything or to take any photographs. There was no rudeness to it; he simply got my students to understand that he wasn’t there for that. He’d supposedly come to see me. I saw one young lady put two and two together as she left; her eyes widened when she noticed my left hand packing papers into my bag.

_If it gets out now, can’t be stopped. Oh well._

Doing my best to avoid his gaze, and somewhat hoping he’d go the way of the other students and just leave, I packed my laptop in my bag and erased the large whiteboards behind and beside me. I had no idea what to say, or where to start, or what was going to happen. But it hit me, once we were alone, that my heart was trying to climb into my throat.

I had to take a moment to breathe, splaying my hands on the lectern in front of me. My eyes closed of their own volition and I didn’t even care that he was watching what was happening to me.

“You’re very good at this.”

My pulse slowed slightly at the fact his voice was still a respectable distance away from me. Lifting my head, I looked up to find him seated, patient and respectful, in one of the desks in the front row. His hands were clasped together atop the fine-grained wood surface of the desk, and he’d managed, for once, to keep his legs together as he sat. It angered me that my immediate response was to remember how attractive he was. He mistook my silence for confusion.

“At teaching, I mean,” he stumbled a little, giving me one of the most earnest smiles I’d ever seen from him. “They really seem to enjoy the class…you bring out the most intelligent responses in them. How do you do that?”

I wouldn’t appreciate until much later that he was speaking on neutral ground about a topic that kept me calm and unemotional.

“Practice, really,” I stammered a bit. “You have to know what to ask of them and how to ask it, but most of the time I let them dictate where we’re going. You were a welcome addition.”

I bit my lip. Managed a small smile. My breathing was slowing down. I zipped my bag and waited for him to make the next move.

“Can I see the ring?” he asked. He didn’t move from his spot, probably afraid I would become skittish and run out on him.

I nodded, wanting to keep the mood light and friendly, and walked over to where he sat, holding out my left hand. I refused to sit beside him or move any closer than I had to. What if I launched myself into his arms?

_NO. Get a fucking grip on yourself, Kate._

He whistled lowly at the sight of the glittering jewels adorning my trembling hand. “You happy with it?” He was being extremely careful, I noticed. No endearments. Easy questions. Even playing field.

At the same moment I nodded and spoke a tremulous “very”, he gently took my tiny hand in his own to get a closer look at the ruby. My breath caught in my throat.

“Easy, Kate. Breathe,” he smiled non-threateningly and I drew my gaze up until we locked eyes. Those laugh lines I’d always loved were still around his eyes, but in the sharp fluorescent lighting of the room, a new set of furrowed lines on his forehead and at the corners of his mouth were thrown into sharp relief.

_Stress._

He broke his glance first, looking down and turning my palm to and fro in his to examine the halo setting and the diamonds running along the sides of the split-shank band. Continuing his “inspection” so he wouldn’t have to gauge my reaction, he continued the conversation as he stood.

“I’m sorry I ambushed you. I know that’s not what you wanted but Luke sort of pushed me here. I have a quick break in filming for three days so I wanted to come see you,” he spoke quietly, finally letting go of my hand. I found I was reluctant to move away from him. “I want to thank you for agreeing to all this for me – and I know without a doubt you certainly don’t have to and I am putting my professional and personal life in your hands. You must think I’m a huge arse,” he corrected himself with a little caustic laugh, “well, even _more_ of a huge arse than you previously thought.”

A bit of laughter just came out of me; I didn’t have time to stop it. It felt so good to have this moment over with – I’d been dreading our first meeting and I realized maybe Luke (and Tom?) had planned this surprise so I couldn’t avoid it forever. When he moved away, as if to leave, instinct had me talking.

“May I hug you? It’s been a long time,” I murmured. “You look well.”

The grin on his face at my request was positively boyish and innocent, as though we were neighbors who’d grown up together as children and hadn’t seen one another in decades. He held out his arms to me. My body moved to him of its own volition.

_Nothing you’ve had before or after him will ever feel as good as this,_ I thought to myself as he wrapped us into a secure embrace.

Just the simple act of hugging this man – the one who’d put me through so many paces and every emotion running the gamut from loathing to ecstasy – was repairing so much of the damage I’d carried with me for the last several months. I didn’t want to admit that the cause of my grief and pain could also be the cure. It didn’t seem possible. But maybe he was changing. Maybe he _had_ changed. I felt him press a kiss to the top of my head before separating from me.

“May I walk you to your car? I know you have an early morning tomorrow,” Tom inquired as I grabbed my things and began turning out the lights in the classroom.

“Luke keeping you apprised of my life, huh?” I chuckled, feeling myself relaxing now that the big confrontation was over.

“It’s important that I know my fiancée’s schedule, don’t you think?” he snorted playfully. Tom gestured to me to exit the room first, and he closed the door behind us after we took our leave together.

“Oh so _that’s_ how we’re already playing it, then?” I asked with not a little mirth emanating from me.

He walked beside me down to the nearest stairwell and pulled the door open for me, allowing me to pass.

“Yes, Kate. Unfortunately, there are some cameras downstairs, outside. Luke and I didn’t alert anyone to my coming here, but I know that I was spotted earlier walking over to your building and I’m sure some calls were made and social media was attended to.”

It was now or never – and I’d agreed to all of this beforehand. The ring on my hand attested to this. Ashamedly, I was finding myself happy to just be beside him again. I shook those thoughts away and opted for sarcasm to save face.

“Well since you’re buying my love and devotion with this ring and a huge vacation, I suppose I’ve got to learn to love you,” I batted my eyelashes at him mockingly, and he laughed as we worked our way down the stairs. “My car is out this door and to the right down the street a few blocks.”

He nodded almost solemnly, as if I had entrusted him with some sort of secret information. And yet as soon as we opened the door to the outside world, I understood his solemnity as a sort of apology.

It took maybe two minutes for a pack of seven photographers to find us and hurry over, their flashes exploding before my eyes in the dusk of evening. They were shouting our names, crowding our space, and quite a bit more aggressive than I ever remember the press being before.

But things had changed.

Reflexively, I grasped Tom’s proffered left hand in my left and curled into him as he wrapped his right arm around me protectively.

“Give us a little space, guys, thanks,” he said politely, yet assertively. “Kate needs to get safely to her car, yeah?”

I dug down deep, after so many months, and rooted out the sassy public relations side of me that had been shoved down for so long.

“Go to the other side of the street, boys, and you might get something good!” I winked.

Playing up to the paparazzi had always worked in my favor previously, and I was counting on it again, if only to get a little breathing room. The night was quickly turning into a baptism by fire.

Relief whooshed from me when the pack scrambled across the street and continued to take photos as Tom escorted me to my car.

“Well played, you,” I heard him whisper as we neared my vehicle, parked quietly on the street and waiting for my return.

“I learned a thing or two, didn’t I?” I smiled up at Tom, squeezing his hand with mine. He squeezed back.

Taking Tom by surprise, I made my way to the side of my car and pulled him up against me by the collar, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and giving the press what I hoped would be a decent shot of the ruby glinting on my displayed hand. I wanted this to look like a reunion to beat all reunions – a display just as fake as what had happened on a Rhode Island beach, but between two people who had actual, palpable chemistry.

Acting as desperate as I could, I dragged my right hand away from where it was clasped with my left and ran it sensually down the right side of Tom’s neck, reaching up on a second pass to tangle in the short hair at his temple before locking eyes with him and whispering. “Will this do?”

And then I pressed my mouth gently – but none too tentatively – against his. I felt him moan against me, and in the same second his own hands were wrapping around my waist and stroking my lower back. We were so wrapped up in this strange, public reunion – at the feel of our bodies reconnecting – that the dozens of camera shutter sounds fell on deaf ears.

Tom broke the kiss moments later, panting, just as our mouths had begun to open in an effort to probe deeper. He pressed his forehead to mine and brushed his nose against my own.

“Is this the most deceitful thing you’ve ever done?” he asked softly, in an almost pained voice. He pressed forward again and nipped at my lower lip softly.

“Yes.” I smiled, my eyes teasing him ever so slightly.

“And yet you’re still agreeing to do it for me…” Tom trailed off, rocking me back and forth a bit where we stood. I stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, aware once more that cameras were still flashing behind the broadness of Tom’s back.

“Well I _am_ getting paid and have a few weeks of leave from work to go to Hawaii,” I teased in his ear in answer.

Tom threw his head back with a pleased laugh, and the sound was so genuine, so happy, that I felt as though the last few months were all a bad dream and that, in some alternate universe, we’d actually been together and blissful all this time instead. It was what I realized I’d always wanted.

But reality didn’t work that way.

We were in an arrangement – a business one – and whatever feelings I still carried for Tom Hiddleston were marred by the fact that he’d never come after me during the initial dissolution of our relationship. By the fact that he’d carried out one of the most obvious PR relationships in the industry. By the audacity his publicist had in asking me to rescue his favorite client from himself once again.

Where I used to be filled with animosity at Tom, at our situation – at _Luke’s plan,_ for fuck’s sake – now I was merely sad that this entire reunion and all the feelings crashing through me were part of a charade.

“May I see you tomorrow? I was thinking we could maybe have dinner and go over some plans for the Hawaii trip,” Tom asked hopefully. He had pulled away only slightly and was running one of his hands through my hair. The flashes and clicks across the street continued.

I hesitated. It was all so fast. “I am free after 4:00…is Luke coming too?” I couldn’t help the hopeful note that crept into my voice. I needed to have a trusted third party alongside us or my emotions and physical responses would be too overwhelming.

_Now that you can smell him and taste him again…_

Tom moved me smoothly away from the driver’s side door and opened it for me, ever the gentleman in front of the press. I knew he sensed my hesitance to be alone with him again.

“Uhm, I mean…I can try to get him here but he has –”

I cut him off with a sincere smile, but one that didn’t quite reach my eyes.

“It’s ok. Send me a message tomorrow afternoon and we’ll come up with something, okay?” I countered. I tried to emphasize the concept of _texting_ instead of calling with my response. It was taking everything I had to keep the upper hand now that he was looming over me, devastatingly handsome and apparently contrite as hell.

“Okay. Won’t call and bother you at work…but I can text?”

I wanted to cry a little. I’d never seen him look so desperately hopeful.

I shook my head in affirmation and reached up to give him another firm hug, trying once more to calm my racing heart and regain a rational mind against the tide of emotion swirling within.

Before I got into my car, Tom kept a slight hold on my left hand, staring down at the ring and rubbing his thumb lightly against my fingers. He mirrored my actions as I got into the driver’s seat, kneeling down beside me on the pavement.

“I’ll try not to bug you a lot but I’ve missed you…and I’m so grateful to you,” he babbled sweetly as I let go of his grasp and placed the key in the ignition, starting my car. As much as I tried to stop it, I could feel the sting in my eyes and a small lump forming in my throat at all that had happened during the course of an evening. None of it was expected.

“Tom,” I turned back to him, willing myself not to cry because the photographers would catch every frame of our conversation as it appeared, written on my face.

He could see me fighting the invisible force and placed a hand lovingly against my cheek, rubbing a thumb soothingly against my skin.

“What is it, beautiful girl?”

I’d never _ever_ heard this type of concern coming from him before now. And the endearment, which would have come across as a hollow sound months ago, now helped to steady me.

I turned in my seat to place hands on his shoulders where he still knelt between the car door and me. Pulling him up toward me so that only he would be able to hear and see the words leaving my lips, I offered my painful truth.

“I _hated_ her. _Hated her with you_.”

We both knew I was in no way referring to Brie Larson, or any of the countless other women he’d encountered before me, or while I worked for him.

He nodded in understanding and traced his thumb along my lower lip, his eyes focusing on it a moment before returning to my gaze.

With a force that pushed the air from my lungs, Tom pressed a harsh kiss to my lips, his hands tangling in my hair, and whispered his own truth right back to me.

“I hate me without you.”

He stepped back, closed my car door carefully, and rapped on the hood twice to signal that I was safe to leave.

I held it together long enough to get four blocks away from the paparazzi.


	7. It's So Sad to Think about The Good Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The word is out about Kate and Tom - for better or worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so thrilled that so many of you are still interested in this story. And I have to say, it's taking me to some unexpected places! Hope you enjoy this next chapter.
> 
> Love you. Thank you for reading.
> 
> xoxo

_**Lady in Red** _

_**Rumourroom.co.uk** _

 

_Dear Readers,_

_We saw it and we know you did too._

_The beautiful ruby, haloed by diamonds, on Kate Michael’s left hand._

_The one that she flashed to the world last night while locked in her most public embrace yet…with Tom Hiddleston._

_We’ve finally been blessed by the gossip gods! Are you freaking out as much as we are? Could it be that our favourite couple has been together all this time – and Taylor Swift was a cover? The songstress has finally been outplayed at her own game!_

_No one knows what those two were talking about so seriously in Oxford, but the looks on their faces and the tight hold they had on one another is giving us a serious case of heart palpitations. The minute our sources give us the goods, we’ll let you know, dear readers,_

_Rumour Room_

 

 

_**Blind Item** _

_**Shhh! News** _

 

_This middling, now barely B-list actor wanted the world to think he’d moved on and continued his playboy ways with one of the most popular singer-songwriters in the business._

_While many people didn’t buy what he and she were selling, there was no doubt that their “arrangement” had a specific purpose. Here are the competing theories as to the reason for their summer fling, according to those familiar with the public relations machines of Hollywood:_

_1) she needed to avoid some major blowback after being caught out in a lie_

_2) he wanted to up his exposure while in the running for a very profitable contract_

_3) possible project promotion (him, not her, for once)_

_4) diversionary tactic for a new chapter in his personal life_

_Option number four seems viable now that there’s been a slew of new photos released. Look for more to happen._

 

 

_**Loki Reunites with His Lady-Love** _

_**Daily Mail** _

 

_Oxford is abuzz with the latest sighting of superstar Tom Hiddleston appearing at his former personal assistant’s college yesterday._

_Hiddleston, 35, chose to spend a day off of filming_ Thor: Ragnarok _to reunite with Kate Michael at her new post as a professor of Victorian and Gothic Literature for Christ Church. Sources say the actor was spotted walking by himself into one of the campus’ lecture halls where, presumably, Michael was holding a class for the evening._

_Miss Michael’s popularity as a faculty member of The House has in part been due to her former entanglements with Hiddleston, as well as her recently-published novel_ Skilamalink _, which many people believe is a loosely-veiled memoir of her time in the entertainment industry._

_This sighting comes not long after the_ Skull Island _actor quietly separated from his most recent relationship with American performer Taylor Swift. The two had a fiery summer affair beginning only a few months ago in June, where they were spotted canoodling on a Rhode Island beach near Swift’s property._

_Mere days after the split was announced, it seems that Kate Michael and Tom Hiddleston have reunited, with the young professor sporting a brand new accessory that’s causing a lot of commotion: what appears to be a ruby engagement ring._

_Several Oxford students took to social media to commemorate Hiddleston’s appearance, commenting that he appeared relaxed and in good spirits. One young woman, lucky enough to be in attendance for Kate Michael’s evening lecture, even posted an Instagram photo of the actor sitting in on Michael’s class, an upper-level Gothic novel course._

_When contacted by_ The Daily Mail _for comment, Hiddleston’s publicist emphasized that the reunion wasn’t as sudden as people were making it out to be. He also confirmed, indirectly, what many people were speculating about._

_“Look, Kate hasn’t gone into hiding,” Luke Windsor explained. “Everyone knows she took her new position at Christ Church months ago. The public has graciously let her regain her anonymity; it wasn’t until Tom had a break in filming and came to see her that people all of a sudden noticed the engagement ring.”_

_Kate Michael couldn’t be reached for comment._

_Hiddleston will be traveling to the States in the coming weeks to make an appearance at the Emmy Awards, where he is nominated for his work in the AMC/BBC miniseries adaptation of John le Carre’s_ The Night Manager.

 

 

 

“I’m… _oh god_ …not supposed to….be doing this,” Tom moaned against my mouth as I wrapped my legs tighter around his waist, grabbing the back of his head with my left hand and clutching the sheets beneath us in my right. Our hips worked together, my body desperate to envelop him in loving warmth and his brutal thrusts ratcheting up a tension that had never really left between us.

“It’s okay, baby,” I purred in pleasure, flexing my inner muscles around his throbbing cock and earning a sputtering gasp from him. “It’s _me,_ Tom. You belong with _me.”_

At my words he panted against my lips once more, slipping his tongue into my mouth and hitching his hips faster against me, causing my legs to work their way higher up his waist as he ground me into my bed.

I couldn’t seem to get him close enough; moving my hand away from the bed sheets, I clawed possessively at his shoulder blade, his hipbone, the taut muscle of his behind. Finally settling for both of my hands tangled in his short, dark curls, I bit out a command in the heat of our coupling.

“Fuck me _harder.”_

He complied with a whine, a tiny noise in the back of his throat that signaled he was losing his mind – and his rhythm – just as much as I was. I hadn’t had sex since our last time in the cottage; and if he was to be believed, he hadn’t either. The taste of him, his scent flooding me, the feel of his warm, muscled flesh finally against me and inside me once more was bringing me ever closer to an end that would surely kill us both.

Just as I sensed a fluttering deep in my belly, I felt those long, beautiful fingers tease roughly against my swollen clit.

“I _love_ you, darling,” Tom broke, tears beginning to fall down his cheeks as he rubbed at me, slamming me into a first delicious contraction. “I love you, I love you, I lo-”

 

_CHIME. CHIME. CHIME._

_CHIME. CHIME. CHIME._

 

My phone’s alarm startled me awake, blaring into my semi-conscious mind and abruptly ending the unexpected dream. I found myself covered in a light sheen of sweat, my duvet tangled around my legs and an uncomfortable aching between my legs as I reached blindly for my iPhone and swiped to turn off the noise.

Rubbing a hand over my face and sighing loudly, I took stock of myself – remembering the vividly arousing scene I was experiencing in my sleep just moments ago – and then scrolled through my emails and read a bit of news before getting out of bed to start yet another Thursday of work.

It would be an easy day, not completely filled with lectures, and I would be done just a few hours after noon. But the dream had thrown me off balance; I’d never dreamt about Tom in such an _explicit_ way before…and perhaps that was down to trying to forget everything that happened in that tiny cottage all those months ago.

There was nothing I could do to escape my past now: he’d come to see me. We had reunited very publicly. And despite the deceitful nature of our new arrangement, the whole world was soon going to find out I was engaged to him. I looked at the sparkling stone on my hand reflexively, and realized with a start that I hadn’t taken it off before going to bed the night before.

I’d always removed the ruby and placed it in its _AMOR AETERNUS_ box each night before going to sleep. To me, this innocuous action lent a small dose of comforting reality; to wear the ring to bed seemed too…intimate. Leaving it off reminded me that everything was just a business arrangement. There was no room to get hurt.

Ever since I’d received the gem, I only wore it during the day, primarily when I knew I would be out and people could see it – it helped perpetuate the ruse that I wasn’t hiding anything. Even before the photographers were taking pictures, I’d been wearing it. My students saw it plainly, as did my colleagues. The ring was tangible, expensive proof to the world that there was no charade going on; of _course_ Tom and I had been together all along. Taylor Swift was just a diversion.

_Ha._

Going about my morning routine of showering, dressing, and making my coffee with breakfast, I tried not to focus too much on my phone where it now sat on the kitchen table. There were a lot of things that could come through the device that were causing me anxiety: messages from old friends, colleagues, or distant relatives who had no idea where I was or what I was up to; links sent to me with news coverage and paparazzi photos splashed everywhere; calls from Luke…

_A text from him._

I hated the mixed feeling of fear and excitement at the thought that Tom was going to text me. We’d been apart for months, and I’d voluntarily left my old life behind, erasing every trace of him that I could. Yes, I knew what I’d signed up for mere days ago, but I was completely caught off guard that he’d come to find me yesterday, looking like his usual handsome self and being so polite, so demure and respectful.

I hadn’t helped the situation by yanking him against my car and kissing him as though he’d been a deployed soldier for ten years in a war-torn country.

Had I done it for the cameras? I mean, it was my job to sell this thing too. And I’d promised the paparazzi something good if they got out of our faces and gave us some space.

Or had I done it because I missed him, because I wanted him back, and because seeing him with someone else – contrived relationship or not – made me outrageously unhappy?

Did I love him? This thing we’d had between us when I was one-third of the _Trinity de Cartier_ , which burned too bright, too hot, too fast – was it really love?

Sipping my coffee and packing my bag to go to the office, my mind ran through those stolen moments we’d had long ago…

Him helping me out of the car at the Tate Gala.

Urging me to breathe and relax atop the London Eye.

Defending me to the press after my unfortunate run-in with Mark Davidson.

Looking at me like I was his queen at the Savoy during the _Vanity Fair_ shoot.

Taking care of me for our last weekend together.

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes as I thought about those memories, the ones that happened behind closed doors, or when few eyes were on us. I could distinctly remember, so many times, catching these glimpses of him and thinking _there, that’s the real Tom Hiddleston. That’s my Tom. This is who he really is._ But his ego had gotten in the way almost every time.

Could things be different now after six months of therapy and a self-imposed period of abstinence? Or was he playing at contrition just to convince me to play one-half of a newly engaged, deliriously happy couple?

I didn’t know what to think.

He’d really been careful not to step out of bounds with me in the last several days – he didn’t push his agenda after Luke told him not to contact me directly. Yes, he’d surprised me last evening by showing up in my class, but he didn’t make the moment about him. That was a first.

I certainly couldn’t blame him for the pictures splashed all over the tabloids (and presumably the web) today – that was all on me. He’d done nothing except follow my lead.

Grabbing my car keys and locking up my apartment, I resolved to let things play out slowly, carefully. If he had ulterior motives, I knew they would seep through like bloodstains on a pristine carpet – spreading until they became unavoidable.

 

 

_**Thanks for drawing attention away from the cowlick atop my head with your flawless ruby ring. Owe you for that.** _

 

The text was waiting for me when I returned to my office after teaching my first morning composition course. The students had been all a-titter, most likely because they’d heard the news; many of their eyes strayed to my left hand throughout the course of the class. Luckily, only one student drew attention to the situation, giving me hearty congratulations on his way out the door at the end of class.

“Thank you,” I beamed, automatically looking down at the sparkler. It was truly amazing how I could turn on and off for public consumption. “See you on Tuesday.”

I was anxious to get back to my office to complete some grading, as the stacks only got larger as the term went on. But I was unprepared for Tom’s text so early in the day. I had expected him to send me a message closer to lunch or dinner, knowing that he wanted to make plans to meet. His comments brought a smile to my face, and I tapped out a quick reply.

 

_**No problem. Just trying to keep my part of the bargain. The ring really is gorgeous.** _

 

He took a few minutes to respond, so I closed my office door and settled in to grade some essays for my lit crit course – students’ critical interpretations of _The Great_ _Gatsby_. It was slow going, as many students were just getting their feet wet in terms of reading with a critical lens, and I made copious notes in the margins for each student regarding his or her choice of theory.

My phone illuminated beside me just as I was thumbing through the first of several pages of a student’s psychoanalytical take on Daisy Buchanan.

 

_**I wanted to get you something that was one-of-a-kind. Glad you like it. It suits you.** _

 

Reading his reply, I noticed that this new version of Tom – if he could be called “new” – was so much less forward and inappropriate than he was when we first met. Our initial meeting had proven him to be brazen, bawdy, and somewhat disgusting. I was actually expecting him to start seducing me all over again, now that we’d been reunited. But he’d taken the high road: he was honest, calm, and didn’t take any bait from me. This reassured me into continuing the conversation, so I set aside the unmarked essay and tapped out another message.

 

_**I jokingly told Luke to go for the ruby because it’s traditionally representative of the 40-year anniversary, and that it would take me just as long to get over the audacity of this charade we’re participating in.** _

 

I sent it, and then followed up immediately with another.

 

_**But it kind of gives me hope when I look at it, too. My parents have been happily married for forty years, and I like to think that all things can be possible.** _

 

I wasn’t sure why I’d said either of these comments to him – about what I’d told Luke, or the confession about my parents – both just slipped out in a moment of unguarded candor. But I knew that I could no longer waste time being fake to this man, because I was going to be expending all my energy faking our relationship to the outside world – it was going to mean awards shows, and movie premieres, and dinner parties, and traveling. I at least needed to maintain a semblance of truth with the one person I’d be sharing all of it with.

If we had any hope of coming out of it not hating one another.

 

_**Are you sure you want to go through with this for me, Kate? I don’t want you to hate me even more than you already do.** _

 

Whatever I thought he’d respond with, this was not it. It was already too late to back out now, not without some _serious_ blowback. And he’d already been through enough after his most recent failed attempt at a love story. The ring was on, the pictures had been taken, and – as much as it continued to amaze me – the goodwill for the two of us was already resounding far and wide.

At first, I wanted to maintain the seriousness of the moment, to respond with something weighty and profound about the two of us and this new journey we would be experiencing together. But I knew my tendency to get emotional would only complicate things, so I opted to stay light.

 

_**There’s no way I’m missing two weeks in the Aloha State. I don’t hate you.** _

 

He said nothing for several minutes, and I was antsy…was he busy? Had I been too flippant? I sent another text.

 

_**A lot of my hate turned out to be about something that was, in hindsight, a misunderstanding.** _

 

After ten minutes had passed, I grudgingly returned to my stack of ungraded essays, realizing I still had quite a bit of time before my second, final class of the day. Lunch was nowhere near; I couldn’t sit and wait for Tom to talk to me. I’d been at his beck and call once in my life already and I refused to do it again. It weakened me, no matter how much I admitted to myself that I missed him.

Tom’s response came just a few minutes before I gathered my things to head to my next class, and I read it with a thudding heart.

 

_**The ruby is traditionally symbolic of loyalty, did you know that? Most people think “red – passion, love…” but they forget loyalty.** _

_**Do you believe that I was loyal to you?** _

 

A month ago, I would have said no; hell, I wouldn’t have even _responded_ to this man a month ago. But then Luke Windsor had to shake up my life again and show me what had really happened – Tom had indeed been steadfast once our relationship (whatever it was) went to a deeper level.

And I’d left the cottage without a word.

He hadn’t helped his image as a Casanova with how quickly he’d seduced me in the beginning, that first night we’d met. And then, before I could turn around, he was fucking his co-star on the beach while I awaited his return to Hampstead.

_When had the tables turned?_

I didn’t have time for this; I had a lecture to give. Tom’s text would have to wait.

 

 

One class and a short lunch later, I returned to my office and finally paid attention to my phone, which had a fresh batch of messages waiting for me. One was from Luke, and three were from Tom.

I opted for Luke first – whatever he had to say was probably either startlingly urgent or terribly bad news. He never had much to say when things were going well.

 

_**The press on this is FANTASTIC. I always told you that people loved you two together. He told me he wanted to have a meal with you today – I’m sorry I can’t get away to join you.** _

 

Feeling a blush creeping up my décolletage and the sides of my neck (mainly at the thought of being alone with Tom again), I merely sent an annoyed face back and deleted Luke’s missive.

Opening my bag and loading it up with the last of my ungraded work, as well as my laptop, I stepped out of my office and locked the door behind me, looking forward to having an early evening at home. It was barely 3:00 in the afternoon, by my watch.

I walked to my car, enjoying the mildly warm day and the faint sunshine dappling the grass under my heels, click-clacking my way down a well-traveled sidewalk until I could hear the chirp of my vehicle, coaxed from my key fob.

When I reached the car and stowed my bag in the passenger seat, I became aware of a slip of white paper flapping gently in the breeze, pinned under one of the wiper blades on my windshield. It didn’t look like a traffic citation, and I wasn’t parked illegally, so I reached out to grab it, thinking it might be a flyer or advertisement for a local function.

Without giving it a second thought, I pulled the paper into the car with me, closed my door, and placed the key in the ignition, flipping over the white document at the same time with my free hand.

 

_**WHORE** _

 

It actually startled me, the word handwritten there in a poison-apple red color. The letters were large and messy, as though they’d been scrawled in a fit of rage.

I crumpled up the paper with shaking hands, shoving it into my bag, and I peeled out of my parking space into the traffic of midday, headed for home. My mind flitted from one possibility to the next, wondering who knew my car and what the purpose of the note was. The one thing I felt sure about was that this message was someone’s response to my relationship – freshly revealed in the press – with Tom. The timing was just too convenient.

 

 

Managing to hold it together long enough to get home, I parked on my street, jumping out of my car with my things and glancing surreptitiously around for anyone who might jump out and do me harm. No one was around my typically quiet neighborhood. I booked it nervously up the walk and into the foyer of my apartment, locking and dead-bolting the door behind me. I needed to sit down. I needed a drink.

Toeing off my shoes by the stairway, I moved toward the kitchen, still clad in my work clothes, trying to take deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth.

_Grab a glass, grab the wine, get Tom. I need Tom._

It seemed the most natural thought in my head. So simple. I was in trouble, I was frightened. And in that moment he was the person I needed to call.

I needed him to come help me, or I was going to lose it.

Gulping down a half glass of cabernet in four swallows, I paced back out to my discarded messenger bag and nearly tore everything out of it before my hands landed on my phone.

I’d forgotten to read his earlier texts, and I scrolled to them now with an eagerness that felt more like rising hysteria.

 

_**I’m thinking that’s a no.** _

_**Would it be all right if we still had dinner this evening? Or even just a drink? I’d like to see you again.** _

 

The message on my car had fucked me up so badly that I’d forgotten to answer Tom’s last question about his loyalty – as well as accidentally ignoring the texts that came after. I had to tap out my answers twice because my fingers were shuddering against the keyboard.

 

**_It’s a yes and another yes._ **

_**I need you to come to my place. Something has happened.** _

 

I almost decided against it, but added more.

 

_**Scared.** _

 

I was in the process of texting him my address just in case he’d lost it or didn’t know it well enough – I knew instinctively that he would come even if it was the middle of the night – when he called me. I picked up immediately.

“What’s happened, darling? Are you safe?” he sounded panicked.

For once, his use of _darling_ didn’t irritate me or sound false coming from his lips.

“I’m fine…I’m…” tears had actually started to well in my eyes. “Someone left a message on my car and I don’t know if I’m being watched or if someone’s trying to get to me or…” I babbled.

Tom made a soft shushing noise into the phone, and I could hear him slamming a car door shut and a car engine purring to life.

“You’re okay, everything is okay,” he murmured. “I’m still in town, I’ll be right there…”

I realized I’d slumped down onto the floor of my foyer, my back to my front door. My breathing was coming in labored pants, and I struggled to carry on the conversation, needing to give Tom directions.

“Where are you…I’m close to The House by about ten blocks…” I breathed, wiping a stray tear from my cheek and trying to rock myself back and forth into some type of safety.

“Kate, darling, I know where you are. You’re in my GPS. I can be there in two minutes, lovely. Stay on the line with me, yes? Talk to me,” he instructed.

His voice, although slightly agitated, maintained that deep, soothing tone I’d loved for so long. “I need you to tell me what you have in your pantry, darling,” he continued, and I was momentarily confused at the oddness of his query.

“Um, I,” I faltered, my mind struggling to focus on something other than the terror threading steadily through my veins. “I have some pasta…I think…there’s chicken and some fresh vegetables…”

_“Good,_ darling. I’m going to make us some dinner when I get there, okay? I’m almost there…I’m going to knock three times so you’ll know it’s me. Almost there, Kate.”

The knowledge that he was so close bolstered me, and I managed to stand and smooth my dress, then run a hand through my hair. He must have heard me sniffling softly.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m parking right now, okay?”

I heard a car door slam and exhaled shakily.

“That was me. I’m coming up the drive, sweet,” he spoke evenly.

I didn’t even wait for the knocks. I ripped the door open, dropping my phone onto the foyer floor at the sight of him and launching myself into his arms.

_Relief._

He grasped me tightly, not faltering one step as I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist. Burying my face in the crook between his neck and shoulder, I felt him carrying me back into the apartment, his mouth next to my ear murmuring soothing, nonsensical words until he slammed the door and locked us safely within.

“You look beautiful by the way,” he spoke in a reverent whisper as he led me into my living room adjacent to the foyer. My heartbeat was returning to normal; the sound of his voice and the smell of his skin proving to be a soothing salve to my frayed nerves.

I sniffed a little “thank you” and gave a tiny laugh, feeling slightly embarrassed now that he was here; I’d overreacted to such a stupid thing, it seemed.

Expecting Tom to curl up with me on the couch, I was surprised when he gently deposited me onto my coziest divan with a kiss to my forehead and abruptly stood up.

“I need the note, darling. Where is it?” he queried, looking around the room until he spotted the crumpled up paper next to my bag by the door. He rushed over on long legs, snatching it up and unfurling it.

He went pale at the sight of the blazing, scarlet word. The fact that he seemed momentarily fearful began to raise my pulse once more, but he blew out a breath and looked at me with his sweet, gorgeous smile – the one I’d only ever seen in a few of our most private moments together.

“I’m going to call Luke for just a moment, sweet. I’ll be in the kitchen, okay?” he moved out of my line of sight and I felt my stomach roll over.

_“_ Tom _…please,”_ I managed, a bit louder than I intended.

He raced back into my sitting room, eyes wide, with the note in one hand and his phone in the other.

“Don’t leave me here…please…stay…” I started to cry again. “Hold my hand.”

There was absolutely no hesitation. He tossed his phone onto the coffee table nearest me, throwing the note aside as if it had burned his hand, and stalked over to where I reclined, shivering in my renewed fear.

Picking me up with strong arms – much stronger than the last time I’d seen him, I noticed – he stretched himself out on the divan and then arranged me in his lap, holding me securely and once again encouraging me to breathe deeply.

As he inhaled and exhaled alongside me, he pulled a warm throw over the two of us and urged my head back against his chest, smoothing some strands of hair behind my right ear.

“Shhh, lovely,” he whispered, rubbing a large, protective hand along my arm and covering us up into a bundle together. “I’m right here with you.”

A moment later, his own voice drowsy after the rush of adrenaline depleted, he swore an oath.

“Loyalty, Kate. I will _never_ let anything happen to you.”

It was the last thing I heard Tom say before we fell into a sleep that would last to dinnertime.


	8. You and I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet evening in turns shockingly productive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, SO sorry for how late this update is, lovelies. I started, paused, and deleted this chapter four separate times in a bid to get it...right. And I just had to wait it out until it took the form of what I wanted.
> 
> I appreciate your patience, your kudos, your hits, and your comments.
> 
> xoxo
> 
> P.S. This might be a little triggery toward the end, so...be careful.

“Kate…”

I stirred gently from sleep at the feeling of warm hands gliding soothingly against the pale skin of my outer thighs. My pencil dress had rucked up around my legs as we’d slept.

“Kate…my _beautiful_ …” Tom murmured from his spot on the divan beside me, still gently coaxing me from slumber with soft words and an even softer touch. “Come on, darling…wake up…”

He pressed a kiss to my hair as he shifted our position, removing the throw and delicately extricating himself from my heavy limbs. I gave a long, relaxed stretch while Tom stood to his full height, hovering over me. His genuine smile at my comfort, and at the fact that we’d been nestled together asleep after a long and bitter separation, made me smile shyly back.

“Hello, you,” I whispered, involuntarily holding out my hand to him; he took it in both of his own as he knelt back down to where I continued to rest. I shivered slightly as he brushed his lips against the knuckles of my right hand.

“I’m going to start some dinner for us, darling. Why don’t you go upstairs and get out of those work clothes, hmm? Get yourself comfortable and relax.”

There were so many things I wanted to say; I’d just woken up – in _many_ senses of the word – I remembered where I was and who was with me. Who I’d called for. Who had come running when I needed him the most. He’d dispelled my fear and stayed with me, being respectful and loving and concerned for my welfare. It reminded me a bit of our time in the cottage; except now, there was no sexual motivation for him. There was no “wanting to pay me back” for all my good work with Prosper for those months.

A sliver of hope materialized in front of me then, that this was the Tom Hiddleston I was meant to know – this man who could feel love, and remorse, and could be a good person. Who was willing to give without taking, without expecting anything in return. Had his therapy with Dr. Hart truly opened doors I thought were forever locked?

Impulsively, I sat up and moved to run my fingers through his short curls, watching half in awe when his eyes closed at the touch and he leaned his head against my hands. I pressed a gentle kiss to Tom’s forehead, breathing in his scent as I did so.

“Thank you.”

It was all I could say. I had no idea what else to verbalize, and I didn’t want to break the tentatively promising spell that still wove around the two of us. So I gingerly stood from the divan, smoothing down the skirt of my dress once more, and headed toward the staircase in search of a change of clothes. I heard him, firm but quiet, as I took to the stairs.

“Anything – _always_ – for you.”

 

 

I took my time upstairs, undressing in a bit of a haze at the fact that he was in my home – clanking around efficiently in my kitchen, having just slept curled against me for the better part of three hours. Smiling absently at the gentle hissing sounds of water running and food beginning to cook on the stove, I discarded the day and its fear alongside my dress into the laundry basket.

Not unashamedly, I admitted to myself that during the circumstances of our… _old_ …relationship, I would have put Tom to the test, returning downstairs in something sexy, or revealing, or (had we been back in the Cotswolds) in nothing at all. But this was a different time. I’d moved on from those games, and resolved more and more to approach what he and Luke asked of me with an exceeding amount of professionalism. I simply put on a classic pair of black satin pajamas, brushed out my hair until it shone in dark golden waves, and removed my contact lenses in favor of my glasses.

Tom Hiddleston was attempting to give me the “real” him, if Luke and Dr. Hart were to be believed, and he deserved the same from me in return. Honesty about who we were and what we wanted, how we acted around one another, were paramount.

The ruby stayed on, though.

Although it continued to represent something false for the outside world’s consumption, the ring became more of a part of me with each passing day. Its weight was a comfort; its fiery brilliance was a testament to my strength and resilience in the insanity of this new ordeal between Tom and me.

My phone chimed on the bed where I’d tossed it after coming upstairs, and I saw a text alert from Luke.

 

_**You okay? I wouldn’t worry too much. It’s probably one of her nutty fans messing with you in a fit of enraged jealousy. Call me later.** _

 

Now that Tom was there with me, the whole episode seemed laughable; of course people were going to hate me now – especially fans of _hers_ who would likely fall hook, line, and sinker for the whole engagement story. It really was so easy to get people to believe things. My shared past with Tom made it all the more believable.

I hated to admit, though, that I was glad he ended up in my arms instead of hers. I’d pushed aside my true feelings about his “romance” for long enough. The aforementioned honesty needed to extend to our new situation together…but I wasn’t ready to admit to him just how jealous I’d been, seeing them on the beach together, watching him lead her around Italy, seeing the cozy photos of them dining out in restaurants around the world. Remembering those photos sent a sharp pang of poison through my blood, and I ached to return to him, close though he already was.

 

 

An odd reversal of fortune met me when I sauntered into the kitchen, the smells of garlic chicken, herbs, and vegetables assaulting my nose. Wasn’t it just a few months ago that the roles had been switched? Me cooking for him, wanting to please him, both of us tucked away from the outside world?

He didn’t notice me standing in the doorway, taking in his sock feet, his long legs still encased in dress pants, the shirt sleeves of his white oxford rolled up to his elbows as he worked from one saucepan to another. I didn’t miss how he tapped a digit against the searing chicken, then raised it to his mouth where the tip of his tongue slipped out to gauge the flavor of his creation. I watched him stir an additional pot of pasta, fishing out a noodle to check its density and texture.

He looked so…at home. So…normal. So…unlike I’d ever seen him.

Tom caught me staring, surprising me when he tossed down his utensils to bound over to me, picking me up off the floor and twirling me around – just once – in a gesture of joy.

“Oh, lovely, look at you. So pretty in your pajamas! Are you feeling better?”

I nodded wordlessly, my arms instinctively wrapping around him as he moved me closer to his workstation, depositing me on the countertop beside it.

“I hope you’ll bear with my cooking, Kate,” he stated apologetically. “I’m only just learning to make a few new dishes. I hope you’re in the mood for some chicken and vegetable garlic pasta.”

I’d forgotten how sweet and authentic he could be. When he let it happen, his emotions were written all over him – his face, in his body language, the timbre of his voice. I’d only ever gotten a glimpse of this reality once or twice. It was what I’d always craved from him.

Clearing my throat, I gave him a little wink and put my hands in my lap, nodding. “Smells excellent and sounds perfect, Tom. Thank you so much.” I waited a beat. “…and thank you for coming when I called. I know it was silly…me overreacting like that…” I trailed off, looking down at my toes peeking out from the pajama pants as my legs dangled off the side of the counter. Heat suddenly unfurled in my cheeks at how ridiculous I’d behaved over a stupid note left on my car. How could something so dumb make me fall to pieces?

Tom carefully stirred the pasta and vegetables once more before turning the chicken in its pan, but when he finished his tasks, he turned to me with great solemnity.

“It’s never silly when you’re afraid, or when you need me, Kate,” he murmured, staring into my eyes so intensely that I squirmed. “What you’re doing for me is the kindest thing anyone has ever done – professional or not – and I want you to be able to rely on me the way I’ve come to rely on you all this time. I had no idea when we met at the Tate Gala that night that you’d become one of the few people in my life I could trust and rely on. That becomes rarer and rarer for me as time goes on…”

This conversation wouldn’t have happened six months ago.

There was a new frankness in Tom’s speech that surprised me. He must have picked up on it because he continued, moving back to the pasta to drain it over the sink.

“I will be damned, absolutely _damned,”_ he growled, “if I ever hurt you again. I had a lot of time to think about you, and us, and what I did wrong…and how I treat people I love…”

_Oh god._

“And Dr. Hart made me confront some positively vile things about myself, and the reasons I act the way I do…I don’t want to be that way anymore. I want to be what my mother and sisters want me to be. What my fans want me to be. What Luke has always believed me to be. I’m not a fucking _prince,”_ he spat that last word, “but I’m a good man, deep down. I feel that I am. I was raised to be.”

He began mixing the pasta and the vegetables, then cut up the garlic chicken in its pan. The gaze he pinned me with wasn’t meant to be predatory, or sexual, but I hadn’t been on the receiving end of those eyes for months, and his words didn’t help me from drowning in his azure stare at all.

“I want to be what you need," Tom gestured to the ruby adorning my hand as he plated our meal with a bit of effort. “That ring may be a symbol of a business arrangement for you, Kate, and that’s fine. To the outside world it’s a token of a burning ember between us that never, ever died. To me…that ring is one thousand percent my commitment to you – to whatever you want. It’s _amor aeternus._ You are my _amor aeternus._ ”

I didn’t realize I was crying until I heard a soft splat against the satin leg of my pajamas and looked down to see the salty remnant soaking into the fabric. His words were so beautiful…here he was being sweet and caring and everything I’d hoped he would be…but all these hopes had gotten me into so much troubled anguish before.

I let him guide me to the dining table, allowed him to pull out my chair for me, and sat, watching, as he placed a bountiful plate in front of me. Noticing just how hard at work he’d been when I was changing clothes, I spied an opened bottle of red wine at the table, and wine glasses next to our waters. Without being asked, Tom gave me a generous pour of the cabernet sauvignon. I wrapped my fingers around the stem, bringing the glass to my lips to drink long and deep before I said anything stupid. Or confessed anything on my mind.

He was being so verbose – not uncharacteristic for him, but his verbosity was of a different kind. He was still charming, and sweet…but he was very much relaxed and honest. He wasn’t trying hard in that moment to seduce or bribe me. For what felt like the first time, I was witnessing Tom Hiddleston as just…Tom. The thought slipped out of my mouth; I must’ve been emboldened by the dark red liquid in my glass.

“I like this very much,” I murmured, spearing a piece of pasta, chicken, and broccoli on my fork simultaneously for a first bite of dinner.

“A recipe my mother made for us as children,” Tom countered, smiling as he, too, tucked in.

_He thinks you mean the meal._

Smiling abashedly, I chewed my bite and shook my head a bit. “No, Tom. Not the food…although it’s excellent,” I wiped my mouth on my napkin. “I like this…you…that’s here with me. You seem…” I didn’t know how to put into words what I felt about him in that moment.

Tom placed his fork gently on his plate, taking a sip of water and then reaching out to tuck a strand of loose hair behind my right ear. “…different?” he finished my phrase. “I would hope so. Dr. Hart has told me I’m progressing well…not perfect by any means, and I still have my moments,” he gave a slight growling laugh that I felt deep in my core. “Just because I’m trying my best to be good for you and to you doesn’t mean I don’t want to strip you bare, spread you out, and have you on this table.”

I choked on my wine, sputtering a bit into the glass before I coughed a few times into my napkin, the stain grossly reminiscent of a tubercular episode.

He was at my side, patting my back, looking guilty. “I’m sorry about that, darling…but I don’t want you to mistake this chivalrousness for disinterest. I’m doing my best to respect you and treat you as you deserve, just as you’ve done for me…but you must know that my feelings for you haven’t abated – not one iota – since the Cotswolds.”

 _Again with the honesty. At least he’s putting everything out in the open,_ I mused.

Try as I might to remain impartial, cool, and collected, my emotions betrayed me in the face of Tom’s unfettered candor.

“So I’m correct in assuming you were never unfaithful to me when we were finally…together?”

It came out quietly; I hated myself for even bringing it up. My hatred materialized in the form of my teeth harshly chewing a bite of herbed chicken, gnawing as images of various…women…and… _her_ …flitted behind my eyes. I barely had time to swallow before he reacted.

Moving his chair right next to mine, he cupped my face in his large, graceful hands, bringing his mouth centimeters from mine. I could feel the puffs of air on my lips as he spoke in a whisper.

 _“Never._ Let me be clear about that. I know there was a lot of back and forth between you and I…”

Here he paused to kiss my lips softly, in a barely-there touch.

“But I resolved, after that fiasco with Mark Davidson, to be the best I could be for you. Any woman I was with when we started working together was a distraction…”

My hands had found their way to his shoulders, where I held him apart from me just enough to focus my eyes and maintain some semblance of control.

“A distraction?” I moved my chair away a fraction, causing an unpleasant scraping sound on the kitchen tiling. This sounded like an excuse the “old” Tom would use. My stomach flipped in anxiety.

_And we’re back to square one…_

I waited for what seemed like ages as he seemed to struggle to respond to my query. He would look from me, to the floor, to his hands, and back to me again with a flustered look on his face.

Finally, he muttered a “ _fuck it_ ” under his breath, steeled himself, and held out a hand for me to take as he stood from the table.

“Are you finished?” he asked, and I wasn’t sure if he meant with the food or with my line of questioning. He pushed back my plate and fixed me with what looked like a brave stare. Mouth open, I nodded vaguely and accepted his outstretched hand, standing and following his lead as he moved us back into the sitting room. Part of me dreaded whatever was about to happen – whether it be some horrible admission or some revelation that would make my heart beat harder for him.

I didn’t want either scenario. I wanted us to go back to the polite pleasantries of a few days ago. I couldn’t be hurt by those.

“Would you try something for me, Kate?” Tom asked, leading me back to the divan where we’d slept earlier in the day.

 _He doesn’t sound like he’s about to go all caveman and fuck you,_ I reasoned. _How bad could this be?_

When I didn’t respond verbally, he looked over his shoulder to see me nodding in agreement. I watched as he arranged himself on the furniture, dropping my hand so he could situate himself comfortably in a stretched-out, cross-legged position.

“You can say no if you want; I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” he pressed onward with whatever plan he’d formed. “But would you agree to sit in my lap, facing me? I want to do a little trust exercise, um, suggested by Doc Hart.”

 _Well I certainly wasn’t expecting this,_ I thought.

I somehow instinctively knew he wasn’t lying just to get close to me – he was avoiding my eyes and biting his lip, fidgeting in the chaise by twisting his fingers together and cracking his knuckles the way he sometimes did during long interviews.

“Tom,” I spoke firmly, and his head snapped up. “It’s just me. Okay?”

He nodded, looking somewhat like a young boy in his nervousness. I wondered what he had to be nervous about as I gingerly maneuvered myself into his lap, my legs crossed and hanging off one side of the divan as I placed a comforting arm around his shoulders and rested my free hand in my own lap. To break what was becoming a very tense situation, I made a little quip as I kissed him on the temple.

“The last time we were arranged like this, I looked like Lady Loki and you were laughing with horns hanging half-off your head,” I giggled a bit, flashing us both back to the _Vanity Fair_ shoot.

“Mmm,” Tom smiled, looking down and blushing – _when did he get so damn prudish?_ – as he laughed a bit. “You looked like a queen.”

I sighed in relief that the thin slivers of ice were breaking between us again.

“Even now, just in your soft, comfy clothes, you still do,” he admitted.

I tried to ignore how the compliment thrilled me. How he could still say such things to make me feel like I’d never been looked at, or kissed, or touched before.

“But anyway…this exercise,” Tom cleared his throat, rearranging me a bit in his lap so he could get comfortable, “is good for getting comfortable with one’s partner…”

I felt myself flush at the word _partner._ It was so much more respectable and reverent than _lover_ or _girlfriend_ or _personal assistant_.

“And Dr. Hart has primarily been concerned with me letting my guard down and learning to trust just as much as I need to give others practice with trusting me,” he continued.

I nodded. I ran a hand through his short, dark curls to bolster him…I could sense his agitation.

 _Or maybe you just want to touch him_.

“So I want to start with something easy…she calls it ‘Ten Minutes of Tenderness’…well, when I say easy, I mean it’s easy for most people but I’m a bit afraid to do it with you…”

_He’s babbling. Oh my god! And not in that intelligent Cambridge double-first way, either!_

“Is this where you tell me that I have to rub your back for ten minutes?” I joked.

He flashed that beautiful smile of his and I saw his shoulders relax from their creeping ascent into anxiety.

“Uhm, from what she’s explained, we’re to hold one another and look into each other’s eyes for ten minutes…we can touch…kissing – gently – is allowed…but nothing sexual. No talking. It’s just to, um, emphasize closeness and being vulnerable…getting comfortable with that…”

I took a deep breath.

“Okay, well…do you want me to set a timer or…?” I trailed off.

Tom fished his phone from his pants pocket and quickly fumbled through it to set a timer for the requisite ten minutes. Right before he started it, I blurted, “Oh…and can I keep my glasses on? I can’t see without…”

He grinned and nodded, preparing to press the start button on the app.

“I’m learning new things about you already, beautiful girl,” he bantered.

 

 

Neither of us realized what a long – and yet short – time ten minutes really was. Although as soon as the timer began its countdown, I was lost to seconds, to minutes.

I found myself staring at the blue-green flecks in Tom’s eyes, studying the gentle curve of his smile as he took me in simultaneously.

I traced a soft fingertip along the divot of his patrician nose, then ran my thumbs along the curve of his brow bones.

Tom stroked long fingers through the waves of my hair, and I noticed he had slowed his breathing to match mine – inhale for inhale, and exhale for exhale.

I continued to look in his face as his knuckles gently grazed the lobes of my ears, adorned as they were with tiny pearl and diamond earrings.

The staring he was doing was unlike any other time he’d watched me – in our past lives together, he was lecherous, lustful, and downright dismissive of me. This time he simply took me in, watched me existing before him in my plain state.

I took a particularly deep breath and was hit with a strong wave of Tom’s scent – something I’d missed more than I cared to admit. It made my stomach clench and my blood throb heavily in my veins.

How I still wanted him…needed him. How my head and heart were so quick to forget all we’d been through. The force was unstoppable: it propelled me closer to him, even though we were barely five inches apart.

I placed kiss after loving kiss on his forehead, his cheekbones, and the tip of his nose, down one side of his neck and up the other, stopping only to seal my mouth against his with a desperate whimper. I tried to remain chaste in my attentions, remembering his instructions to avoid anything overtly sexual. But this man – the only person I’d found who could incite such unbelievable turns of emotion in me – still affected me like the most insidious of poisons. He was in my veins, he saturated my blood, he affected my every breath…every beat of my heart. How could I have forgotten what all this felt like?

 

_BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP_

 

With a puff of air, Tom broke the spell woven between us to turn off his phone alarm, blaring its attentions into the evening air.

Not a little unsettlingly, I felt him gently move me away from him just a hairsbreadth…as though any closer and he might break me.

Tom didn’t have a lot of shame – especially to work in the business he did – but I’d never seen him quite so vulnerable, flushed, and self-conscious as he was then. It surprised me, after seeing him full of bravado for all those months. So virile around women when we first met…

“That was…difficult for me,” he admitted, strangely out of breath.

When I swept hands into his hair in a gesture of comfort, he clasped them in his own and brought them to his mouth to kiss. I noticed he kissed my ruby-adorned ring finger several times in a row.

“Why so difficult, Tom?” I inquired.

It took him a moment to answer, and I didn’t know if he was searching for the right words or getting over some weird sense of embarrassment about the whole exercise.

“Uh…well, I mean in my line of work I’m used to scrutiny. It’s par for the course, as they say. But having you stare at me so intensely…seeing _all_ of me…it’s like you’re reading me or something…and I don’t want you to dislike what you see and ‘read’. I already lost you once. It might happen again…”

Wow.

I couldn’t help my forthright response.

“She really did open you up, didn’t she?” I marveled at Dr. Hart’s skills. Tom could only nod. He didn’t even have the gumption to look at me.

“Maybe,” I encouraged, “the more we do that, the easier it will get. I feel that way too, you know? Worrying I won’t be enough or that you won’t like what you see…the imperfections…the depths of my emotions…”

He seemed exhausted by the exercise; he merely moved forward to press a kiss to my lips, as if he were thanking me nonverbally. After closing his eyes for a moment, he huffed out another deep breath.

“That was the easy one for me I think, darling. The other one will be much more difficult in comparison.”

“What…other one?” I asked, even more intrigued, if not wary.

“Well, Dr. Hart is really pushing the honesty and trust ideas…and it’s so ironic now,” he laughed bitterly, “that I agreed to that whole PR nonsense with Taylor when I was trying to espouse honesty to myself the whole time. I’m a fucking _fraud.”_

I grabbed him none too gently, flames igniting beneath my skin at the mention of her name.

“You’re not a fraud with me, Thomas.”

I’d never called him that before.

It startled him. He scoffed a bit at my statement.

“Oh no? Well I can definitely tell you I wasn’t nearly as honest as I could – should – have been. From the time we started working together…”

For what seemed like the millionth time that night, my stomach churned.

_This could be very, very bad._

“That’s why I want to try the other one,” he got us back on track. “The other exercise. You don’t have to do anything but listen, darling.”

I nodded, a little unsure of what was coming up.

“This is the part where I get everything out in the open…it’s supposed to make me feel like I’m having a fresh start. Clean slate, do you understand?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it. Our first several weeks had been…rough, to put it politely.

I thought back to our first dalliance – _forced_ – in his kitchen after the Tate Gala.

Since I’d only been worrying about the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I hadn’t paid attention to the tears that were pricking Tom’s eyes. I was shocked to see them there, and had a flashback to his anguished face as I left the hired car the night we went to the London Eye.

“Just…please…” he bit out, wiping at his eyes in the most matter-of-fact way possible, “let me say everything to you. And try not to loathe me after.”

He sounded like an uncertain, lost child. And it broke my heart.

I took his hands, saying nothing. And so it began.

 

 

_“I went on a three day-bender after you left the Cotswolds. Took a bottle of pills and ended up having my stomach pumped in A &E after Luke found me.” _

 

_“I forcibly assaulted you the night we met, in part, so that you’d resign and I’d never have to see you again. I wanted you. And I knew you’d never have anything to do with me otherwise, wouldn’t deign to lower yourself to being with someone like me. It humiliated me that you stayed on to be my minder.”_

 

_“All of your gifts and clothes were from Luke. The whole time. I wanted you gone and he convinced me – for weeks – that you needed to help me maintain my ‘image.’ I wanted nothing to do with you but he made it look as though I did. He even left all the bags and boxes at my house.”_

 

_“Every ‘date’ we went on…I could feel your pity and loathing. I wanted you so badly. I wanted you to be mine SO badly…but I could see the disgust in your eyes. Self-sabotage is what Dr. Hart told me I did those times…at the opera. After the Eye.”_

 

_“Mark Davidson was injured pretty badly after his news item about us came out. I paid him off – and his lawyers – so no one would know about it. Couldn’t do it myself because I’m such a fucking coward, but I paid someone to break his right arm and hand.”_

 

 

I laid in bed late into the night, replaying some of Tom’s confessions – ones that had come out slowly, painfully, over the course of two hours. He stopped many times in between, taking stock of my body language, looking up at me through hooded lids in shame, even wiping away angry – and at turns humiliated – tears. This exercise that was supposed to build up trust and create a tabula rasa was, to my mind, doing nothing but hurting him more.

Many times, through my shock, I stroked his hand absently as he struggled through the conversation. The revelations were astounding to me – how much he’d hidden from me. How deeply he’d felt things. How volatile our ‘relationship’ was for him. To the point of a suicide attempt…of a physical attack…

Dr. Hart had, seemingly, correctly assessed the effects of his parents’ divorce on his self-esteem. He still, decades on, felt as though he had no control, couldn’t count on others, didn’t matter…wasn’t worthy.

One of the most sought-after actors in the world felt unworthy to sit at my feet.

And had done a fucking _stellar_ acting job convincing me otherwise.

The cost of Tom’s confessions and our ten-minute foray into tenderness had turned him – a professed extrovert to the nth degree – into a skeleton of his normal self. I saw how drained these exercises had left him, and ushered him gently to my front door, thanking him profusely for dinner and reassuring him – _reassuring!_ – that I would talk to him the next morning.

He looked terrified that I’d slam the door in his face and never talk to him again.

How differently the day had turned out. Tom had come to my rescue mere hours ago, and now I was soothing his fragile ego as he prepared to leave. Suddenly the blaring _**WHORE**_ note on my car seemed laughable in the face of all this new turmoil.

With a promise that I’d phone him the next afternoon, I gave Tom a strong hug and a lingering kiss with which I imbued as much affection as I could.

“Thank you for telling me everything, Tom,” I’d spoken softly. I kept my tone even so he couldn’t imagine any annoyance or pity in my voice. I simply felt sad at what I now knew – and I simultaneously felt proud of him for taking such a risk with me…and so soon after our somewhat unplanned reunion.

I watched him get into his car, giving me one last frightened look, before he sped back to his hotel in the heart of Oxford.

There was one particular confession that he’d stammered out after all the others that kept me awake far longer into the night than I’d wanted. The way he tried to get it out quickly made me think he was embarrassed of it…or perhaps it was something he’d never intended to tell me in the first place. But he’d said it. And he couldn’t look at me when he did.

 

_“You can believe me or not. It doesn’t matter. I never would have told you this because you would have spat in my face and told me I was full of shit. Still might…but, I knew the night I met you that I wanted to marry you. Didn’t even know your middle name or how you take your coffee. Tried not to think about why you refused to work with me at first. And then I had the balls to assault you in my own home. Jesus, fuck…”_

 

He’d gone on. Rambling. His hands were balled into fists at his sides.

 

_“My actual impulse – as pig-headed as this sounds – was worse than having you like that in the kitchen. What I really wanted was to carry you to my bed and get you with child. Mark you. Fill you up so completely that you’d forget any name but mine. Make sure you were carrying my son or daughter and bonded to me before you left. If I ever would have decided to let you leave.”_

 

I’d been shocked at how it was possible for me to feel a thrill – and feel so horrified at the same time.

 

_“And I’m most ashamed to say that, in my darkest fantasies, I still crave all of those things…when this trip to Hawaii happens…If I could I’d spend hours making love to you – sunup to sundown – on the beach, in every room of whatever suite you want, fucking you and loving you and keeping you wrapped around me so I can feel your surrender over and over…”_

 

He’d looked up to see my aroused face, my pupils blown wide. I was biting my lower lip so hard at this specific secret that I could taste the bitter rust of blood droplets. Tom had shocked me then when he grabbed my face, licking the blood from my lip and kissing me with all his might before breaking away with a heavy exhalation.

 

_“But I’ve sworn to myself – and I swear to you now – that I’m going to prove to you that I can be a good man. No matter what my body and soul want from you. You deserve only the best of me and I am going to go to my grave trying to be that. So I won’t force myself on you. I’ll accept that you’re doing all this for me as a business favor.”_

 

I’d started to say something, feeling slightly lightheaded at all his new information. But he cut me off.

 

_“You should know though, my sweet Kate, that as long as you wear that blood-red gemstone on your hand, you’re giving me precious hope. And I intend to become the only man on this earth that you want.”_


	9. Hit Me Where I'm Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something...unusual for Tom...happens. Rumors abound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles evilly*
> 
> Have some more, my lovelies! Talk to me...
> 
> xoxo

The lock screen on my phone was glowing when I woke with a start early the next morning – far too early.

Like, 3:00 am too early.

I couldn’t say what caused me to wake; I hadn’t had a dream or heard a noise, but when I saw the aura of light around my phone, I grabbed it and, with bleary eyes, noticed that I had six texts from Tom. No calls…but just as I hovered my thumb over the Touch ID button, another text flared to life from him.

My stomach flipped its nervous little flip – something that was happening more and more often now that Tom was back in my life. Was that something I really wanted? Was I still willing to welcome all the intrusion, and the rumors, and…him? All of this new baggage he’d placed tentatively at my feet?

I rubbed at my eyes as I opened my messages, and read everything, top to bottom, a few times.

 

 

_**Can’t sleep.** _ _**I’m worried I’ve completely freaked you out.** _

 

_**I think we might have moved too quickly this evening. Forgive me.** _

 

_**You’re probably asleep but I can’t help this terrible feeling that I’ve somehow pushed you away with all this new information. Please tell me it isn’t so, darling?** _

 

_**I can bear to live with myself if you only tell me you don’t hate me,** _

 

_**Kate. This is why it’s so hard for me to open up to people…especially people I love. Especially you.** _ _**You do know that I’ve always loved you, don’t you? Do you see that now?** _

 

_**Look, I get that you probably hate me now. It’s no wonder that I can’t have a successful relationship and I’m going to end up alone, the laughingstock of my family and friends. I’m exactly the type of failure I promised my father I wouldn’t be.** _

 

 

He was going from bad to worse with each message. As I reread everything once more, another text arrived.

 

 

_**I know this sounds crazy…but can I see you as soon as you wake up? I just…I need to see you.** _

 

 

My fingers were typing a reply before I could consider the time – and what I was allowing.

 

 

_**I’m awake. Come over. Maybe you’ll be able to sleep a bit better – we had a nice nap together earlier.** _

 

 

After I sent the message, I was hit with a feeling of chagrin at my inability to stay strong and avoid emotional entanglements with Tom – and yet pleasure at the thought that I’d be seeing him again so soon. Maybe it was because I was in control of the situation, or maybe it was because I actually felt badly for him now that he’d unleashed all his demons for me to see.

But I knew some part of me wanted to help him; an even bigger part of me relished the feeling of being in his arms again, tucked away from the world as we were in the cottage. We had been an excellent team, once upon a time.

Tom didn’t bother to respond via text, but he called me a few moments after he received my message. I could hear him getting into his car.

“Darling?”

I answered in the affirmative, padding my way downstairs to turn my front porch lights on and wait by the door for him.

_“Thank_ you.”

I could hear palpable relief in his voice at the other end of the line, and I smiled to myself.

“You’re welcome. Trouble sleeping?” I asked, stifling a yawn.

“A bit, yes. I just keep replaying our conversations over in my head and I’ve been agitating myself all night about whether or not I’ve frightened you away with…things.”

_The poor man, once so full of bravado…now in need of reassurance like a scared child._

“Tom,” I breathed, “You haven’t. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I’m proud of you for seeing Dr. Hart, for getting everything out into the open and for trusting me enough to share those things with me.” I swore I could hear him sniffle just a bit. “I’m obviously concerned about you, and I have more concerns still when I look back and see how our relationship began. The volatilities, the mistrust, the evasion, the lack of communication…there’s a lot we got wrong.”

“I know that, darling,” his tone wavered a bit, “and I deeply want to rectify all the hurt I’ve caused you. But can you please believe me when I say that I was never unfaithful to you when we finally started seeing one another?”

He didn’t quite get the full picture yet.

“Tom, I know that you want me to believe that, and in a way it’s true, but we weren’t really seeing one another – in the true sense of the word – until the weekend in the Cotswolds. There were other women when I began working for you – we both know that – and the women continued until I basically resigned. You do see that, don’t you? That our ‘seeing one another’ lasted less than a handful of days?”

It took him a long time to whisper a half-hearted _“yes.”_

“You just worry about getting yourself here safely and then we’re going to try and get some sleep, okay?” I reasoned. “Do you want me to stay on the line with you, Tom?” I heard him take a deep breath, exhale, and then muster himself.

“No, darling. I’m almost there anyway. Thank you.”

When he ended the call, I was slightly affronted at his abruptness, but I chalked up his actions to feeling a bit bruised about the conversation’s turn. I didn’t have long to wonder about his motive, though, because I heard a car door slam, followed by the sound of Tom making his way up my walk.

I opened the door.

However upset, however disheveled, however fatigued Tom Hiddleston ever was, he still managed to be one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen in my life. He’d thrown on the black _Legendary_ studio t-shirt the paparazzi had photographed him in so much recently, and was wearing a pair of long black sweats and his old running shoes. The tired, fearful smile he gave me as we locked eyes caused my heart to clench, and on instinct, I opened my arms to him as he made his way to the threshold of my home. Expecting a tight hug and a moment of ponderous silence, I squeaked a little as I was lifted bodily from the floor into Tom’s arms.

“Put your arms around my neck and your legs around my waist, please,” he murmured, kissing me politely on the cheek as he shut and locked my front door.

My body obeyed before my mind could catch up, and I was still somewhat dazed with sleep, so I laid my head on his shoulder as he carried me up the stairs toward my bedroom.

Feeling Tom’s strong muscles flex and move as he carried me to bed brought back unbidden images of him: naked, lightly covered in sweat, taking me for his pleasure. He’d been so carnal and provocative when we worked together. Now he seemed to be polite – still tactile – but eschewing some of his physical cravings for what I hoped would continue to be more emotional connections.

Depositing me softly onto my bed when he entered my room – he inspected nearly every room upstairs until he found the one that was mine at the end of the hall – he swiftly toed off his shoes, then moved to perch on the opposite edge of the bed where he watched as I slipped back under the covers. He ran a hand through his riotous hair.

“Are you _sure_ you’re okay with this, Kate? I promise I’m not going to try anything – ” he started, but I grabbed him by the hand, motioning for him to get comfortable.

“I know you’re not, Tom. I know you’re trying not to be that aggressive person anymore. I know you’ll respect my boundaries this time around. And I also know that you need some reassurance. Right?”

I heard his soft _“mm-hmm”_ as I turned off my bedside lamp and nestled down in my pillows. Tom seemed uncertain as to what to do next.

“You’re not going to frighten me if you gather me up in your arms to sleep, or if you just want to be left alone but have me sleeping beside you, okay? You need to tell me what I can do to help you,” I directed, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. The action had a palpable effect on Tom’s body language – enough that I could actually see him relax at my touch.

He bit his lip for a second, worrying the flesh with his teeth and tongue as he most likely decided how to phrase the request I knew was coming.

“Tom,” I laughed a bit, trying to lighten the mood. “You’ve seen me _naked._ This isn’t a big deal!”

My bedmate closed his eyes, groaning in delicious discomfort, presumably at a mental image of me naked from an earlier time in our lives. Grabbing my hand, he squeezed it tightly in his own before tugging on it slightly, signaling he wanted me to move closer to him.

“I know I have,” he whispered as he arranged me carefully against him, turning on his side so he could curl protectively around me. “I’m just so afraid of wanting this all the time, Kate. I had it once…and I messed things up rather badly.”

He dropped a kiss atop my hair as I relaxed against him, placing my hand on the arm that was curled securely around my middle.

“How about,” I yawned again, “we take things one day at a time. Today was a good day for us, Tom. You came when I called. We had a nap together. You fed me a delicious dinner. And now we’re going to get the remains of a good night’s sleep.”

His sleepy hum sounded like an agreement. As I drifted off, still ensconced in the darkness of early morning but with the addition of a strong body pressed against mine, I could hear Tom murmur softly in a deep tone that I felt in my bones.

“I do love you, Kate. I do.”

 

 

My work alarm only blared once, since I reached out to silence it so quickly. However, I found that I wasn’t quite able to get out of bed completely – I was being held hostage by an extremely tall, extremely strong visitor who had managed to keep me anchored to his person through the rest of our night. When I made to separate myself from him, Tom groaned in a gravelly, deeply sexy tone. I felt him nuzzle his face into the side of my neck and hair, heard him inhale deeply at my sleepy scent.

“Do you have to go in?” he murmured, and I could hear the petulance creeping into his hoarse morning voice. I smiled, turning in his arms without thinking to plant a kiss on his forehead.

“Yes, sir, I do. But,” I finally got him to relent and pulled away from him to the edge of the bed, “I only have a few things scheduled at work this morning and I will be free the rest of the day. Would you like to go out to lunch?”

He hesitated, and then curled onto his side so he could reach out a long arm and brush a strand of hair away from my face.

“You’d do that? Go out in public again and have a meal?” he queried. He seemed unsure of my idea and not a little surprised I was up to it.

“Only if you’re paying,” I teased, and I squealed as his features darkened and he lunged across the bed for me, grabbing me back into his arms and wrestling me back down into a supine position next to him.

“So you’re _using_ me, darling?” he growled in my ear playfully. I knew he was buying time – the two of us together in my bed was apparently something he was enjoying if his good mood and peaceful sleep were any indication.

“Why _yes,_ Mr. Hiddleston. You could earn me some _excellent_ press for my book,” I snickered. “In fact – ”

My train of though was cut off when Tom, catching me completely off-guard, swiftly made his way down to my stomach, brushing the hem of my shirt upward and blowing a huge raspberry right against my belly button. His mock-evil snarl drowned out my squealing laughter as I tried to squirm out of his hold, failing with fatigue at fighting someone so much larger than I was.

Helping me to sit up, Tom asked his question again. “You’re really, absolutely sure you want to have lunch?” he repeated.

_There’s that sweet, hopeful face again…_

I reached out my hands to run through his sleep-mussed hair, whispering my reassurances to him once more.

“Yes, Tom. I’d like to have lunch. We have a vacation to plan, don’t we?”

He nodded, smiling, and grabbed my hand to place a kiss upon my knuckles.

Suddenly, his phone beeped loudly; we both startled. I watched curiously as Tom quickly moved off the bed and crouched onto the floor where his iPhone was charging by a wall outlet. As he skimmed through, he smiled a bit, and I was suddenly overcome with a sick, jealous fear that another woman was messaging him – even possibly _her._ Never mind that his text from Brie Larson in the cottage had been innocent; I still couldn’t staunch the flow of poisonous fear zinging through my veins, and it brought me back to the last time I’d been in a similar situation: the Cotswolds.

My immediate instinct was to flee to the bathroom and pray that Tom would leave, allowing us to forego any awkward conversation – or preventing me from going into an irrational tailspin about who was on the other end of the line. I tried to school my features as best I could, but I knew when Tom glanced up at me from his position on the floor, he could read everything in my eyes plain as day. I saw him go white, and then he snatched his phone from the charging cord, moving quickly to sit beside me on my bed. He handed me his phone.

“Tap on the Messages one, Kate.”

I hesitated, looking at him in a slightly confused yet still anxious manner.

“Go on, darling. It’s from Josie Rourke.”

I tapped the green icon and immediately saw the message, something about Tom’s new project at the Donmar. It was friendly and completely innocuous. My stomach unclenched.

In a soft murmur, with his hand suddenly rubbing circles on my back, Tom continued. “You can look through my other things if you want, Kate. Texts, emails…whatever you like. I promise I don’t delete things. I’ll even give you my passwords,” he explained.

“Tom, I –”

I wanted to tell him I felt like a crazy person for even wanting to know what was on his phone; he was giving me carte blanche to go through his private business, and I wasn’t sure it was a good – or healthy – idea. But I didn’t know what to say.

Wrapping an arm around my waist, Tom slid me against him at the edge of the bed where we sat, and I handed him his phone without looking through anything else. I tried again.

“I don’t think giving me access like that is going to do anything but make me obsess over things…” I trailed off.

Tom pondered my response for a moment, and then placed the phone in the pocket of his sweatpants.

“But you know that you can always see anything you want, okay?” he asked. “I want to be one-hundred percent transparent about everything with you.”

It was a nice gesture, I had to admit.

“I want to prove to you that you can trust me, that there’s nothing I will hide from you, my beautiful Kate,” Tom spoke with reverence as he leaned in to kiss my temple, then my ear, then my cheek and jaw. My eyes closed automatically at the sensation of his mouth.

I didn’t know what to say. A weak smile was all I could offer him in return for his words.

“I…should get ready for work,” I finally spoke lamely. When I stood from the bed, Tom grabbed my hand and grinned.

“Lunch at Cherwell Boathouse, beautiful. How’s that sound?” he declared. “What time are you finished?”

“Uh,” I spoke dumbly, mentally going through my morning schedule. “Slightly after noon. Assuming no crises arise.”

“Would you like for me to drive you, or do you prefer to meet me there?” He looked so excited that it made me feel badly for ever doubting him, despite our past.

“I’ll meet you, I think,” I said, turning to gather some undergarments from my dresser and then moving to my closet, rifling through my still-expensive dress collection. “Do you think we’ll be photographed?”

He was watching me sorting through the garments hanging in my closet, and I could see the gears turning.

“I’m not going to call anyone and alert them, if that’s what you’re asking,” Tom spoke honestly. He was gathering his keys and wallet.

I flashed back to all the photographs I’d seen of him with _her_ …all the meals, all the outings…with his family. A wave of heat flared through me. I turned to him with a devious smile.

“Call them.”

 

 

“I love your dress, Dr. Michael,” a student said as I made my way out of the lecture hall.

Grabbing my briefcase and belting my black cashmere coat over the midnight-black Tahari Benita lace dress, I nodded in thanks at the few straggling pupils who were leaving the class. I wanted to drop off some essays and extra handouts from the lecture, so I closed down the room and made my way to the building next door, where my office awaited me.

As did the gorgeous new shoes I’d yet to break in.

I didn’t plan on teetering around in them during my morning composition classes, but I could drive in them and walk into Cherwell looking as good as I possibly could. That was one thing I’d missed from my time with Tom – wearing gorgeous clothing and shoes and showing them off.

Of course, that was only part of the reason I’d told Tom to call the press.

Making my way up the stairs to my office, I felt my phone buzz in my right coat pocket, and I reached in to see what the commotion was about. Surely he and I were still on for lunch?

 

 

_**Excited to see you. Lunch might have to be a bit shorter than I’d like, beautiful girl. I’ve a meeting this evening in London with the Donmar**_.

 

 

I tried not to focus on the sadness that suddenly enveloped me at the thought of Tom going back to London. Ironic, when I’d never expected him to show up in Oxford in the first place. It seemed now that I’d had my fix, I wanted more and more of Tom Hiddleston.

Just like old times.

Before responding, I switched my footwear from the black studded smoking flats I’d taught in all morning to the pair of Giuseppe Zanotti ankle strap snake heels I’d kept on my desk in their pristine, new condition. I took a photo of the velvety shoes adorning my feet, showing off my recently acquired blood-red pedicure, and sent it to Tom.

 

 

_**I’ll be there in ten. I’m the girl with the snake shoes on ;)** _

 

 

Tom responded a moment later as I made my way across the campus, clacking carefully to my car in a faculty parking area.

 

 

_**…did you wear the red or the black dress with those devilish things?** _

 

 

I had to admit, the flirting was heady. Tom had stayed in my apartment just long enough to witness me trying to choose between the luscious black Tahari and a bright cherry colored Black Halo cowlneck sheath dress that hugged me from shoulder to knee.

 

 

_**The black.** _

 

 

I scanned the outside of my car in case any new surprises had been left there, but I was too pleased with my lunch plans to really be bothered; nothing was apparently on my vehicle, anyway.

 

 

_**Perhaps I can see the red another time?** _

 

 

Part of me was impressed that Tom was flirting, and not in the brazen, off-putting manner that he used to rely on when we’d speak to one another. He was still being playful, but there was a slight edge to the respectfulness he was cultivating. I found myself wanting to push his buttons – test the limits – but I realized that wasn’t what he (or we) needed right now. He wanted to avoid too much too soon, and I was already going to be sending him a powerful message with my dress and shoes.

The coiled gold snakes around my ankles weren’t just a message for him, either. I was counting on the press having a field day with them, if they noticed.

And I’d been around long enough to know that they would.

I tapped out a final response as I started my car, bracing myself for whatever happened at the Boathouse.

 

 

_**Ask and ye shall receive, Thomas…** _

 

 

 

Parking a few blocks away from the restaurant was a good idea, and one I’d had as I took a careful pass of the restaurant a few minutes before noon. There were a good handful of photographers milling about on the street and sidewalk taking photos, and I saw that Tom was already there, smiling for a few fans and signing some things near the entrance. He looked relaxed and happy, to my relief.

After turning off the ignition and getting out of my car, I knotted my coat around me against the chill of autumn, and braced myself for a walk that would most likely be splashed across the tabloids the next morning – and all over the internet by late afternoon and early evening.

As I came close to the entryway of the restaurant, one of the paparazzi noticed me and began yelling my name, the flash on his camera going berserk at the sight of me. I clutched my bag so hard I could feel nails digging into my palm, but I smiled and searched for Tom, whose head shot up at the sound of the other photographers joining in.

The one thing he’d always been good at, regardless of our feelings about one another, was helping me through situations like these – all the way back to our first meeting at the Tate.

When our eyes met, I felt myself exhaling and smiling naturally, and the subtle wink he threw my way seemed an assent to strut my stuff, so to speak. Mindful of the photographers, I brazenly eyed the fans surrounding Tom – many of them women – and made my way confidently toward the group, greeting the gathering with soft “hellos” and thanking them for being so nice to Tom.

He held out his hand to me and pulled me tightly to his side as soon as I was within reaching distance, planting a soft kiss on my lips.

I was slightly surprised when a few of the fans spoke to me, addressing me by name and immediately launching into a commentary about my relationship with Tom.

“We think you two are such a good match,” one of the older women admitted, her eyes flitting back and forth between me and him. “Tom, you did well! We’re so glad that nonsense with Taylor is over…”

A subtle undercurrent of jealousy seemed to wrap itself around the fans, but I tried to diffuse the situation knowing that cameras were on our every move.

“Well I _promise_ ladies, that if it doesn’t work out between us, I’ll send him your way,” I smiled, and several of the women laughed a bit at my joke, smiling at me. I shook hands with some of them, thanking them for their time, but one of the young ladies practically slapped my hand away, glowering at me.

She stepped forward, getting into my face, and as I backed away slightly, my grasp loosened from Tom’s hand. I could hear the shutters clicking madly around us.

“You _bitch,”_ she hissed, poking a manicured finger toward my nose. “You think you’re so _sweet_ and that you’ve got everyone fooled, don’t you?”

Instead of allowing anxiety to show on my face, I quirked a bemused eyebrow and stared down at the ruby engagement ring on my left hand. I hoped she couldn’t see me shaking in my coat.

“Anything else you’d like to say?” I said softly, still smiling.

It always got them when you kept your tone even.

“Everyone with two eyes and a brain knows you’re just using him for publicity for that piece of garbage you wrote…” she started moving closer toward me, and I sidestepped her easily, even in my snake shoes.

“Come on darling,” I heard Tom call, and I looked up to see him gauging the situation, approaching the two of us in a non-threatening manner so the woman wouldn’t try anything rash. “We’ve a lunch reservation to keep.”

“You’re right, Tom,” I smiled at him, almost totally ignoring the woman who once again made to move toward me. She couldn’t decide whether to go for me again, or to start in on Tom – I was obviously the easy target because I wasn’t the object of her affection. When I began to close the distance between us, I turned my head to look at the redhead and gave her another polite smile. Loud enough that the press could hear, I told her to enjoy her day, and that I was sorry, but we had to rush.

_“WHORE!”_ she screamed, and spat at me.

My reflexes luckily allowed me enough presence of mind to block her saliva with the arm of my coat before Tom was upon her.

I’d never seen him so enraged – not in any character he’d played, not in any encounter we’d had. He was scarlet with rage, and his teeth gnashed as he towered over the young lady, his finger pointing directly at her face.

“I don’t know _WHO_ you think you are, speaking to my fiancée like that,” he boomed, backing her up until she stumbled off the sidewalk and onto the pavement of the street. She almost fell, her eyes wide at Tom’s out-of-character reaction. “You can say whatever you want about me, about my career, about my friends, about the choices I make,” he ranted, grabbing her by the arm, “but you _NEVER_ speak to my Kate like that! You should apologize for being such an irrational _bitch!_ I’m embarrassed to have fans like YOU!”

I swallowed with dread as he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her over to where I stood. Normally, the personal assistant portion of my brain would have kicked in at this moment – witnessing an assault – but I was too focused on the fact this woman was insulting me and Tom was vehemently defending my honor.

The woman was torn between fright at being on the receiving end of Tom’s anger – something not many people had truly witnessed – and disgust at having to apologize to someone she hated: me.

I was offended at what she’d done, and I was feeling high and mighty at Tom’s protectiveness toward me. So I stepped up to her.

“Let me guess, sweetie. You put that note on my car, right?” I sneered.

Her half-smile and the triumphant gleam in her eyes basically answered the question. I wanted to claw her eyes out for scaring the shit out of me, and for making a scene during what should have been the start of a wonderful afternoon – but I still vaguely registered the cameras around us.

_I bet they’re having a fucking field day with this…_

Mustering a level-headedness I wasn’t quite feeling, I addressed Tom sweetly. His hand was still wrapped crushingly around the woman’s bicep.

“Tom, _babe,_ it’s okay. Let go,” I soothed. “We have lunch to get to. We need to go over vacation plans.”

He seemed to remember himself, and I winked at him to continue calming him down.

“I wanted to show you the bikinis I ordered,” I teased.

The woman seemed to realize she’d overstepped a huge boundary, and became embarrassed that she was in the middle of such an intimate conversation.

“As for you, ma'am,” I addressed her, “you can call me whore whenever you want. If that’s what Tom wants, I’m happy to be his whore.”

She blanched.

“And as for your little comment earlier? About anyone with two eyes and a brain? Well,” I laughed a little derisive huff, “anyone with two eyes and a brain knows he and I are _made for one another._ You need to leave.”

I strode toward the entrance of Cherwell Boathouse, Tom not far behind me.

 

 

“Will this do, sir?” the gentleman from the front inquired.

“Yes, thank you,” Tom replied, pulling out my chair for me and situating me at the small table toward the back of the restaurant. He’d already taken my coat and draped it over the chair beside me. I heard his breath catch at the intricate lace detailing down the back of the dress.

With a nod and a bow, the host left us to our menus, and I reflected silently that Tom had chosen for us to sit tucked away in the back of the restaurant, away from prying eyes. The cameras had certainly gotten what they wanted outside, and without me even having to suggest it, Tom had insisted we be seated in the Boathouse’s most private area. I knew he needed to cool off.

“I’m so sorry I goaded her,” I said, placing my small hand over one of Tom’s. “But I can’t help it if I want everyone to believe this relationship…I don’t want you to be hurt or humiliated in the press anymore. I would _never_ treat you like Taylor did.”

When he said nothing, but smiled embarrassedly at me, I continued.

“We’re going to show the world that _this_ is the relationship to be jealous of. This will work, Tom. I promise.”

I let him order for me, but he was strangely quiet before and after placing our requests. I figured he was just calming himself down after the altercation we’d just had.

“When you say things like that -” he started, and then seemed to back up. I could sense he was struggling with how to phrase something. He wouldn’t look at me. Clearing his throat, he took a sip of water and tried again.

“When you tell me you want people to believe this relationship, it makes me think you’re still only agreeing to this as a business proposition. And whatever foolish part of me believes you still have feelings for me dies a little every time.”

He pretended to refold the linen cloth in his lap and rearranged the silverware of his place setting.

_This is not how I wanted lunch to go,_ I thought.

I wanted to tell him, I really did. I had as many feelings about our situation as he did, but I wasn’t ready. I knew _he_ wasn’t ready – not after the Pandora’s Box that had been blown wide-open by his therapy sessions.

And then I remembered our evening of honesty, and decided that this is what had failed us the last time. I needed to be up front.

“Tom,” I murmured, “ok…this is me trying out the whole honest communication thing with you.”

He seemed to perk up at this. I moved my chair a bit closer to his around the side of the table.

“I’ve _never_ stopped having feelings for you. You must know that,” I began.

He smiled a little and I could see the whiteness of his knuckles fading where they gripped the table's edge.

“I am scared to try this with you, and for now, it _is_ a business relationship – something we agreed to. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t like the thought of being your fiancée. I would be lying if I said I didn’t like what you did for me out there – no matter how rash. And I lie to myself _every day_ by trying to forget about how your mouth feels on my body. How you feel buried deep inside of me. How well we fit together in every way.”

The waiter chose that moment to return with our starters, two plates of Brixham scallops. Tom had a finger in the collar of his dress shirt, and he looked as though he needed a bit of air.

“Can I get a Jameson on the rocks, please?” he breathed heavily.

The waiter nodded and left.

The eyes that fixed upon me as he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt seared me to my core. In a voice that was identical to Loki’s, Tom responded to my admissions.

“I _appreciate_ your honesty, _my darling_.”

It seemed slightly inappropriate, but I stood from my seat – motioning with my hand for Tom to stay seated, as he tried to rise from the table in the manner that gentlemen do when a woman stands to leave – walked over a few steps to his chair, and leaned down to plant a luscious kiss onto his mouth. He didn’t bother to tame his hands; they found their way up my back to tangle in my hair.

Someone two tables over cleared his throat, and I took that as my sign to return gracefully to my seat.

Tom watched my every action: how I moved my chair forward toward the table, how I draped the linen in my lap, how I crossed my legs and then delicately took a sip of my water.

“Those shoes are quite something,” he smirked. “I never knew you to have a penchant for snakes, Kate.”

I slid a knife into one of the scallops on my starter plate and shook my head. “I don’t. I just thought they went well with the dress,” I winked.

Tom threw his head back, affording me a lovely view of his throat and neck, and laughed that deliciously deep sound he was so famous for.

“I’ll just bet you did, beautiful.”

 

 

We spent our meal over duck breast and a chocolate trio discussing the Hawaiian vacation – which was coming up quite sooner than I’d realized.

“Luke and I have basically everything sorted,” Tom explained. “We didn’t want to bother you with the logistics because work is hectic for you, but I’ll be happy to change anything you’re unhappy with,” he finished. He’d moved our chairs close together and was showing me our resort accommodations on his phone.

“You might find this a little odd, but one of the most high-end, exclusive, private resorts in Hawaii is the Disney property _Aulani.”_

I think I surprised Tom a bit with my exclamation of glee.

“Oh, Tom. I’ve always wanted to stay there! I’m crazy for Disney,” I murmured, kissing him on the cheek as he flitted through some photos of the resort for me to see.

“Well now that’s something else I didn’t know!” he laughed. Suddenly he seemed even more excited to show me what he had in store for us.

“We’ve been afforded high-end security and the most privacy that was offered in Ko Olina…it helps a bit that I’m on good terms with Marvel,” he winked. “We’re going to be staying in the ‘Ahu ‘Ula Suite – two bedrooms as requested,” he spoke politely. “Whatever you want, we can do – or get.”

I threw my arms around him, hugging him tightly. “Thank you for this, Tom,” I smiled as I kissed him on both cheeks and then sweetly on the mouth. “I’m so excited!”

“I’m glad you are, sweet girl. It’s Disney, so we know they have top-shelf dining and recreation…you’ve got access to a wonderful spa package and concierge service…and they know we’ll both be working a bit so everything is set up for us.”

“Do I get to go paddle boarding?” I asked with childlike giddiness.

“Yes, darling. And scuba diving – they have their own private area for that. There’s traditional lei making, and luaus with dinner under the stars…”

“I’m totally spending most of my time on the lazy river at the pool,” I confessed.

Tom chuckled, squeezing my hand. “If you’ll have me, I’m right there with you,” he declared.

I held out my left hand to him, glancing at the ring before teasing him.

“Well you _are_ my fiancé; I suppose we’ll have to do some things together…” Tom stuck his tongue out at me, turning a bit more proper when the waiter came with our bill. “And we get to stay for two weeks? Won’t you get bored?” I asked seriously. I knew Tom liked being active and experiencing new things. I would be content reading on the beach and tanning, but I wasn’t sure about him.

“Kate, if you’re there, I’ll be the happiest man I’ve ever been.”

“Well, Mr. Hiddleston,” I feigned breathlessness, “this is quite the honeymoon for the press, isn’t it?”

I’d been lulled into a false sense of security with Tom’s good mood during lunch. His low almost-snarl caught me off guard.

“Young lady, if you want to come back from this trip bruised and sore and swollen and aching, keep calling it a _honeymoon.”_

I swallowed, feeling myself blushing. My thighs rubbed together unconsciously at Tom’s low tone and insinuation.

“And if you really want to goad me, darling,” he continued darkly, moving closer to my chair once more, “I’ll make sure it becomes a _babymoon.”_

 

 

_**Blind Item** _

_**Shhh! News** _

 

_This trying-to-redeem-himself foreign-born actor is back in the press for his latest relationship, only…according to most insiders, this newest one (or is it oldest?) isn’t actually for show. There are so many layers to this B-lister’s current arrangement that we’re not even sure he knows what it is, exactly. One thing’s for sure: his popularity is on the rise once more. Surely that has nothing to do with it?_

 

 

_**Aloha, Gossips!** _

_**Rumourroom.co.uk** _

_Dear Readers,_

_We have it on good authority that Tom Hiddleston and his most faithful, dearest assistant are INDEED in a serious relationship – that ring is concrete proof that they want the world to know they’re in love and stronger than ever._

_Want something even better? Two separate sources tell us that the lovely pairing of Kate Michael and her debonair darling Tom Hiddleston are soon headed to Hawaii to celebrate their engagement._

_Perhaps they’ve already married and we don’t know about it yet? We’re on it, as always…and you’ll be the first to know._

_P.S. Did you see Kate's Giuseppe Zanotti serpent shoes? She looked glam as always, but we here at Rumour Room think they're a strange choice; we don't think Kate's into snakes...but her fiancé used to be! Wonder if she's sending a message?_

_Have some pineapple, dear readers,_

_Rumour Room_

 

 

_**Heartthrob Hiddleston in Altercation with Female Fan** _

_**Daily Mail** _

_He might be a Lo-ki guy (get it? ‘lowkey’?), but Tom Hiddleston proved he was anything_ but _earlier this afternoon during a lunch outing to Cherwell Boathouse with his long-time assistant and fiancée Kate Michael._

_According to locals at the scene, Hiddleston was signing autographs and posing for pictures at the popular, upscale Oxford eatery when Michael arrived, presumably for a date. A disgruntled fan – the redhead in photographs obtained below – was said to have hurled abuse at Kate and spat at her._

_Hiddleston then apparently went after the fan, grabbing her by the arm and giving her some choice words._

_The photos show what continues to be a volatile relationship between Hiddleston, his fans, and Miss Michael, whose recent book_ Skilamalink _continues to climb the rungs of the bestseller list here in the UK and abroad in America._

_Much speculation has been tossed around as to the nature of Hiddleston and Michael’s rushed engagement and suspicious dating activity so soon after his break from high profile entertainer Taylor Swift._

_“The redheaded woman just began screaming at Kate, and Tom had had enough,” one photographer claimed. He was at the scene with a handful of other paparazzi that were taking photos of Hiddleston signing autographs for a throng of people who’d gathered outside the restaurant to meet him. “Kate didn’t look too ruffled, but Tom clearly wasn’t going to let anyone tear her down. I’ve never seen him so enraged, and I’ve been taking photos of him for a couple of years now.”_

_According to a body language expert contacted by the_ Mail _who has accessed the photos, Hiddleston is demonstrating an extremely dominant, protective, and aggressive stance when confronted with the as yet unnamed redheaded woman._

_“Many times Mr. Hiddleston’s back is to Miss Michael, and he’s standing in front of her as if it protect her from harm,” the expert, Sharon Keynes, explains. “Notice how the right hand is splayed downward toward Kate’s stomach – which is ironically covered with a thick coat. This may suggest a pregnancy, and could account for Tom’s extremely visceral reaction.”_

_It’s an uncharacteristic move for Hiddleston, who normally takes the high road and refuses to get physical with overzealous fans._

_Representatives for Hiddleston and Michael could not be reached for comment._

 

 

I didn’t really know what to make of the article Luke had sent me, but by the time Tom also texted me about it that evening – back in London though he was, I was shocked to find myself feeling slightly aroused at the prospect.

_The thought of Tom fucking me endlessly until he was sure I was pregnant…_

_Tom being fixated on my body as it grew ripe with his child…_

_Tom greedily taking advantage of my hormones in overdrive…making love to me until I was crazy with desire and need…_

The text he’d sent after messaging me the article didn’t help either.

 

 

_**I don’t even care if they think you’re pregnant. Let them think it. That rumor alone – that you’re full of my seed and making my baby in your sweet body – makes me hard as stone. I enjoyed our lunch, beautiful.** _


	10. Baby I Couldn't Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We move forward in time as Tom and Kate travel to Hawaii for their engagement vacation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my darlings! We've arrived in Hawaii...and the sexual tension is about to hit an all time high.  
> Get ready. I know you want it...
> 
> ;)
> 
> Love you. Thanks for reading!

If I thought that having a meal in public with Tom tested my strength, or that sharing a half-night’s rest with him in my bed would measure my resolve, I was horribly, laughably wrong.

The prospect of an eleven-hour flight from the UK to Los Angeles followed by a six-hour flight from LA to Honolulu both combined to turn me into a nervous, highly aroused mess. It hadn’t helped that we’d not seen one another in a week, after Tom’s less than stellar behavior was captured outside the Cherwell and he fled back to London. The myriad news items about my possible “pregnancy” had apparently only inflamed him toward me all the more, as he couldn’t keep his hands to himself once we’d pre-boarded our first flight.

Nothing inappropriate; but I was aware of every brush of his hand against the small of my back, every trace of his thumb along my hand. We’d managed to evade most of the attentions of people around us in Heathrow, and I said a silent prayer of thanks when we finally found ourselves ensconced in a rather… _empty_ first class cabin. It seemed odd, to say the least.

“I want you to be as comfortable as possible, beautiful,” Tom spoke kindly as we found our seats, “so I booked the entirety of first class for us.”

He took my trench coat and extra carry-on bag, stowing it easily above our heads in the storage compartment along with his well-traveled backpack. I didn’t know whether to be suspicious of his sudden generosity, thankful for a break from the glare of the public, or afraid of the prospect of many, many hours alone with the handsomest man I’d ever known in my life. But I didn’t have much time to think about motives, because all of the frequent fliers of coach were now filtering onto the flight, giving both of us interested glances as they made their way to the other two-thirds of the aircraft.

“Window or aisle, Kate?” he whispered, causing me to reflect that I was still standing in a kind of awed, confused manner. “Whatever you’d like, lovely.”

My two options were this:

A window seat would afford me more room to rest my head, some truly breathtaking views, and the security of being boxed in with Tom away from prying eyes.

An aisle seat, however, would offer me escape from him, from his scent, from his close proximity, from any inappropriate feelings I might try to act upon.

_I might need both._

“How about I start at the window and we move around as we see fit, Tom?” I responded, making my way toward the window and gingerly seating myself in the comfortable accommodations. I slipped off my shoes, putting on a small pair of warm socks and wrapping myself in a luxurious, cream-colored sweater that would keep me comfortable for the duration. Tom nodded, smiling, and took his place beside me on the aisle seat.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as he opened a dog-eared copy of Shakespeare’s _Othello,_ and felt myself relaxing at the thought that he would be distracted for a while.

The plane continued to fill, and by now, word had filtered through the airport that we were on the flight; each new person that entered the craft sought us out with his or her eager eyes. Tom looked up to smile graciously at passersby every so often, but he seemed unfazed. The attention, despite my previous line of work, was still something I needed to get used to.

Sensing my slight discomfort at people staring with every pass, Tom wordlessly grasped my left hand in his right, but he continued his reading. I thought nothing of the gesture – the act itself coming so naturally to the both of us that I smiled to myself and relaxed a bit at the warm reassurance of his hand around mine. It worked in his favor that he was able to soothe me so easily without even saying a word.

“Tom?” I murmured, just as the last few stragglers boarded the airplane and the pilot came over the intercom to give us details of our journey to LAX.

Lost in his beloved Shakespeare, he absently responded with a quiet, “mm?” and then looked up at me with sweet blue eyes.

Leaning into him, I placed a long, languid kiss against his mouth, trying to convey so much at once: my appreciation for his care, my thanks for his expensive attempt to give us privacy, and my happiness – though I hated to admit it – that we were together again and _alone._ I heard him drop the book into his lap at the same moment his other hand found the side of my face. He broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to mine with a little exhalation.

“What was that for, my beautiful girl?” he queried.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” I blushed, stealing another quick taste of his mouth before pulling away to check that my seatbelt was securely fastened.

He smiled – not a sexually charged leer like the days of old – a boyish, happy smile, and ran a free hand gently through my hair.

“Much more of that to come, Kate. I will always take care of you. I love you.”

A small part of me was starting to believe it.

 

 

Once we’d settled at a comfortable altitude, I decided to take advantage of the peace and quiet by doing some work, seeing as Tom was doing the same with his annotated, sticky-tabbed copy of _Othello._ I had never stopped being proud of him and his work, I realized, watching him pore over his notes and ideas for his latest run at the Donmar Warehouse as the great villain Iago. He was, in my opinion, never better than when he was playing the antagonist in something; Shakespeare was his ultimate calling – and watching him perform live was a thrill I thought many people needed to experience. He was truly gifted.

There had been so much talk about Tom’s career in the press since our previous “relationship” ended, and I reflected a moment on all the negativity he’d shouldered since I fled the Cotswolds: he’d thrown his soul into several films that were either panned or ignored; he’d been proclaimed a loser in the competitive race toward casting of the next Bond; it had been unanimously decided that he should stay away from leading man roles and stick to character acting.

I still felt, in my gut, that he wasn’t getting his due. He’d been so busy working and trying to prove himself – PR stunts or not – that I now realized he’d lost his own sense of self, not long after he’d lost me. And from what Dr. Hart’s sessions had revealed, Tom must have considered the backlash from the public as confirmation of the things his own father had told him years ago.

_No wonder he didn’t come after you. Defeat may have prevented him from doing so._

Frowning to myself at the thoughts I’d just uncovered, I meticulously began outlining some upcoming lectures for my Gothic course. I needed a distraction and didn’t want to bother Tom while he worked. As I clacked away on my laptop, a stewardess suddenly presented the two of us with glasses of champagne.

“The captain sends his congratulations on your engagement Mr. Hiddleston, Miss Michael,” she smiled politely as she handed us our bubbly.

I happily accepted the drink, thanking the air hostess with a smile and a nod, and watched as Tom took his own glass from the young lady. The Tom I knew from all those months ago would have taken the opportunity to flirt with this woman, being playfully tactile and charming. He would’ve called her “darling” and tried his best to make her blush with his deep, seductive tones. I realized I was sitting in my window seat, waiting for this exchange…and it wasn’t happening.

Had the backlash extended to his physical sense of self? Or was he truly changing as a man? Did Tom want to be completely committed to me? To _us?_

He simply told the woman to give his regards to the pilot, thanked her, and turned to me so that he could clink his glass carefully against mine in a toast.

“To us, my beautiful Kate,” he intoned quietly. “And to a much needed vacation _alone.”_

I drank to his pronouncement after giving a soft _hear, hear,_ then noticed he was watching me closely as I drained the smooth, effervescent liquid from my glass.

“Would you like more of that, darling?” Tom asked, reaching over to wipe a droplet of moisture from my lip.

Without thinking, I darted my tongue out to taste the flesh of his thumb. He froze, eyes widening, then darkening, as he removed his hand.

“Let me ask you a question,” I murmured, handing him my empty glass and stowing my laptop before unbuckling my seatbelt to get more comfortable. Repositioning myself in my seat so that I faced Tom, my knees tucked under me, I began.

“Would you say you’re drawn to playing…dark characters?” I asked, nodding my head in the direction of his copy of _Othello._ “Loki, Coriolanus, Thomas Sharpe, and now Iago…”

A low chuckle echoed in my ears as Tom turned his full attention toward me.

“I feel as though we’ve had this conversation before, Kate,” he winked. “You like when I’m bad, don’t you darling?”

I looked down at my hands, at the ruby engagement ring, and smiled a bit more shyly than I meant to.

“I like watching you _play_ at being bad. You’re wonderful at it; but I much prefer in my real life when you’re good to me.”

He leaned in closely to me to whisper, although there was no one around to hear our conversation.

“Then we’ll need to remember to _play_ at being bad together, won’t we?”

I shuddered in delight, leaning forward to bite him softly on the earlobe. “Don’t you start, Thomas,” I growled. “I’m being good and so are you,” I trailed off, holding my breath when he grabbed me and gathered me forcefully – if not chastely – into his lap.

“I’ve been good for many, _many_ months now, Kate. And I want it known _explicitly_ that whenever you want me to stop being good, I am more than ready.”

His grip around me tightened, and instead of fighting the anxiety this normally would have caused me months ago, I relaxed into him. If he wanted me to trust him, I had to show him that I was willing to try.

“There’s a good girl,” he intoned before kissing my temple. “Now, explain to me why you’re asking about me being bad.”

I hesitated a fraction too long.

“Darling? Out with it.”

Not sure why I was embarrassed at the thoughts running through my head, I shook them off and decided to look Tom in the eyes while I proffered some newfound advice. I had apparently never removed my public relations hat completely.

“I can get you Bond,” I whispered, wanting to avert my eyes at his intense gaze but fighting the urge to look away. I bit my lip as he moved his face closer to mine, our noses almost touching.

“Say that _again,”_ Tom responded with a slight growl, pulling me against him so my neck was flush against his warm mouth.

“I can…” my breath hitched in my throat as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss just below my earlobe, “…get you…Bond.”

My eyes closed involuntarily as Tom trailed the tip of his nose up and down the length of my neck, inhaling my scent and curling his arms ever tighter around me. One of my hands wound into his hair, holding him to me, as I desperately tried to continue my explanation.

“He’s the… _baddest good_ that there is…a…dangerous leading man…”

I swallowed thickly as Tom began nipping lightly at my exposed collarbone. He stopped his ministrations momentarily to laugh darkly against my flushed skin.

“Oh, my darling, you flatter me. But there are things I want much, much more than Bond…” he trailed off.

I felt his tongue trace a tiny circle against the pulse point at my throat. The combination of his mouth and the champagne was causing my head to swim a bit; I struggled to reply coherently.

“Like wh-what?” I asked. “An Oscar? You al-already have an Olivier.”

Tom finally turned my face toward his with a gentle movement of his fingers under my chin; he then rocked me backward a bit in his lap so he could look me fully in the face.

“Like your trust. Your love.”

I blushed.

It got worse.

“You as my wife, taking my name,” he swallowed, suddenly a bit nervous. “Would you take my name?” His eyebrow quirked in that adorable way, signaling his uncertainty.

I couldn’t help the flutter in my stomach at the thought of being Mrs. Hiddleston. He could read the answer in my eyes, as much as I tried to hide it. And then he pulled me into him again, moving his mouth to rest softly against my ear.

“Your tummy _swollen_ with my child.”

Once again, I found the moment too serious; I was all for communication between the two of us, and this complete honesty was all well and good, but his new earnestness still frightened me a bit. I playfully swatted at his chest.

“What?” he laughed in bewilderment.

“What is with this pregnancy kink, Hiddleston?” I teased. “Has this always been a thing for you? It’s practically every time I talk to you now…”

His face went serious again, immediately. I didn’t know how he could switch emotions so quickly, but then again, he’d been able to experience the gamut of them in his career.

“I told you, lovely. Since I first met you...it’s most definitely…become my _thing,_ ” he lowered his voice, moving me back to my own seat as the stewardess returned to take our meal orders. When we’d given our preferences, he turned his full attention back to me.

“I’ve always, _always_ wanted you in the most primitive… _possessive_ sense. I want every man to know…to _see_ …that you’re spoken for. That you’re mated to me. That you’re _my mate_ and I’ve been _inside of you_ enough times to mark you and get you with my child.”

My insecurities all came falling from my mouth in the face of such a confession.

“And what happens when you find another mate? Primitive men aren’t biologically designed to stay with one person, you know….”

 _See what he says to that,_ I thought proudly.

Lifting my left hand so that we could both clearly see the ruby adorning my ring finger, Tom answered as though he knew I’d prepared this argument.

“This ring is the first of many promises I fully intend to keep, Kate,” he explained. “I hope you know that I work too hard and take enough pride in things that are _mine_ that I don’t forsake them for mindless pursuits. Everything before you – _everyone_ before you – was a mindless pursuit.”

I scoffed a bit, feeling as though the old Tom was shining through and delivering me this line. As I turned my head away to gaze out the window, feeling a thrum of unwelcome anxiety in my belly, Tom curled a large hand around the back of my neck, gently bringing my focus back to him.

“What happens when I find another mate, you ask?” he quirked a long finger at me in a “come closer” gesture, and I leaned forward to glean his murmured answer as the stewardess returned with our meals and other accoutrements.

“My darling Kate, I’m going to be too busy loving and serving you, counting down the days of our first pregnancy…” here he stopped to thank the air hostess for her services, letting her know we’d call if we needed anything, “until I can have you again, sate myself within you again…impregnate you again…to even pay attention to anyone else.”

I gasped, shifting in my seat at Tom’s heated confession. A slow, aching throb had begun to build between my thighs.

“There isn’t ‘another mate’, darling. There won’t be ‘another mate.’ The sooner you trust in that, the more easily you succumb to me, my love, the easier this will be.”

I wanted to believe him, his seductive words…but we’d only just reunited, I reminded myself. And I still found it highly improbable that a few months of therapy could change someone so irrevocably. But it could work, couldn’t it?

“And the line of work you’re in…that doesn’t exactly allow for honesty and monogamy,” I countered. I dug into my meal, ignoring the quivering in my belly and knowing I’d need sustenance for the long hours ahead of me. Tom did the same, suavely placing a napkin in his lap and holding his cutlery like the sophisticated, educated man he’d been raised to be.

“Being faithful to you is a choice I will gladly make every day, Kate,” he said bluntly. “Ignore how we began – we both had preconceived notions and I very obviously needed to work through some deep-seated, painful issues – and focus on what we’re going to be, together.”

“And what is that?” I asked wryly as I made my way through my food.

“Husband and wife. A team. _Insatiable_ lovers,” he trailed off, eating a bite of seasoned chicken as though we were discussing the weather.

I didn’t really know what to add to the conversation. I once again found myself uncomfortable, wary, yet highly aroused at the prospect of what I’d been offered.

“Don’t think I’m jumping into anything rash on this trip, Thomas,” I snarked, and he simply grinned a devious grin right back at me. “Remember that as of right now, we are purely for entertainment purposes. I agreed to this as a business arrangement and I intend to keep it that way. I’d like to spare myself the hurt.”

“The timeline is yours, my beautiful girl. I’ll gladly wait as long as I have to for you,” he acquiesced, picking up _Othello_ with a free hand as he continued eating. “But just know this – as soon as you say the word, all hell is going to break loose. I don’t care what happens first: a baby, marriage, night after night of frantic lovemaking…you are _made for me_.”

He couldn’t have missed the pleasurable shiver that ran through me, despite all my misgivings.

“Fine,” I half-stuttered. “I’m just going to sit here and plot your triumph as James Bond.”

It would give me something to do with my overactive mind and my flustered body.

“You do that, my little _agente provocatrice_.”

 

 

The lights in the cabin had dimmed, allowing some nighttime atmosphere to seep into the airplane, when I began watching Sam Mendes’ _Spectre_ on the flat screen in front of me. I’d seen the film during its theatrical release, and I wasn’t as thrilled with the writing as I’d been with _Skyfall_ and _Casino Royale,_ but Daniel Craig’s latest outing still had excellent moments: the gorgeous uncut tracking shot in Mexico that begins the film, the ridiculously fun helicopter fight scene during the _Dia de los Muertos_ , and the incomparable Monica Bellucci as Donna Lucia Sciarra, a most attractive widow.

Tom was arranged sleepily beside me, half-watching the film but without earbuds in. I knew he was using this quiet, uninterrupted time to organize plans in his mind regarding his next run at the Donmar, and I reached a hand over to soothingly stroke his knee. I found myself doing this more and more – touching him just for the sake of feeling him beside me. It began to afford me a secure feeling I’d never previously experienced with him; it also incited a longing within me that I tried to ignore.

Watching as James Bond infiltrated Lucia Sciarra’s compound to assassinate the bodyguards sent to kill her, I became acutely aware that Tom was grasping my left arm in his hands, gently brushing the sleeve of my sweater up my forearm as I watched the film. Not knowing what sort of game Tom was playing, I kept my eyes fixed to the screen, watching as Bond poured drinks for the widow Sciarra right before she slapped him across the face. I continued my viewing as an inflamed James threw the crystal glasses onto the floor, shattering them, and stalked Donna Lucia across the room to press her against the wall.

Tom began tracing his lips lightly along the soft skin of my forearm, licking softly at the pulse point of my left wrist, and then stopping here and there to suck ever so softly at my flesh. My hand, limp in his own, moved of its own accord to thread in his hair as I honed in on the feeling of Tom’s warm mouth on my arm, laving at the crease near my elbow joint.

On the screen, Bond was mouthing sensually at Donna Lucia, unzipping her dress and pressing her bodily against a full-length mirror.

Tom could do this. He’d been seducing me with and without words for months – he could be volatile, and passionate, and tender…he could be James Bond. To my mind, at least.

With my free hand, I tore the earbuds from my ears, turning to Tom with heat flaring throughout my body. He looked at me in mild surprise, removing my hand from his hair to pull me into his lap once more. Before I could stop myself, I wrapped my arms around his neck and began kissing him – trying not to appear frantic but needing the taste of him on my lips. I broke away for just a moment to breathe my assurance.

“You could definitely be Bond, Tom.”

He gathered me to him tighter, and urged me to rest my head on his shoulder so we could talk – apparently in a more intimate manner than we already had.

“You seem so fixated on this, my sweet. But don’t confuse what you know I can do to you with what you see on a screen. That’s not real. _This,”_ here he punctuated his words with a light thrust of his hips into my center, “is real. And it’s only for you.”

The film forgotten, I attacked Tom’s mouth again, licking at his lips and welcoming his warm tongue into my mouth – a sensation I hadn’t felt in what seemed like years. He met me, kiss for kiss, and ran strong, soothing hands along my back and shoulders.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he coaxed, finally settling me into a less frantic pace before craning his head down to suck at a particularly tender spot right below my ear. “You’re making it difficult for me to remain in control, baby. And I don’t want to do anything you’ll regret.”

He was right; I also realized he was doing his best to keep things honorable.

_Perhaps he has truly grown, then._

“Won’t you cuddle in my arms and sleep with me, my beautiful girl?” he asked plaintively.

I nodded, situating myself more comfortably against him, and fell asleep to his deep, even breathing and the steady beating of his heart.

 

 

The remainder of our time to Los Angeles International was filled with more meals, more naps, and not a little work on both our ends: Tom was emailing back and forth with Luke regarding some upcoming _Thor_ promotion, and I was answering student emails and preparing some documents to be disseminated electronically during my time away from the classroom.

Every so often, he would lean over and steal a kiss from me, or grasp my left hand in his right to hold. At one point, he wanted me to run some lines with him from _Othello:_ me as the titular character, and Tom mellifluously working through the poisonous words of Iago’s soliloquies. It was like magic watching him work; he would ask me to re-do certain lines so he could attack his phrases in different ways, varying the dynamics of his voice, or changing his facial expressions to suit different emotions in a line of verse. Once again I found myself feeling immensely proud at his work ethic and his talent.

By the time we found ourselves traversing the terminals of LAX for our next and last flight to Honolulu International, I was shocked to find myself desperate to be alone with him again. A deserted first class experience had indeed spoiled me, and I was suddenly keenly aware of all the eyes on us as we made our way to the gate, which led to our final flight. A few cameras flashed, and Tom stopped twice to sign autographs for a few young fans that ran up to us; many times, I found myself trying to separate from him in a bid to give him the spotlight and ease the anxiety coursing through my veins, but he kept a firm hold on me.

_Why is it so different than it was before?_

_We’d been photographed together numerous times when I was his assistant…_

But he’d never kept hold of my hand like this in the past. He’d never previously had reason to introduce me to anyone as anything other than his assistant. Now, for entertainment purposes or not, I was Tom’s fiancée, and I could see on his face and hear in his voice how proud this announcement made him. The more I heard it, the more I learned to like the sound of it, too. He moved us swiftly through the slightly crowded terminal, always staying close and keeping a protective hand at the small of my back, while his other hand held my own.

It was a completely different scenario than every airport photo I’d seen of him with her: the two of them looking pleased yet somehow chagrined, him always steps ahead of her.

 _He walks beside you every step of the way_ , I thought, as the gate agent greeted us. She scanned our passes and allowed us to board for first class once more.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t have time to book the entirety of this flight for you, lovely,” Tom apologized as we made our way onto the aircraft. “I did manage us two seats together in first class, but I’m afraid this time is going to be a bit less private.”

The look on his face that accompanied his words broke my heart a bit; he truly looked as though he feared I would be unhappy or upset with him because of such a small inconvenience. I didn’t mind in the least, and was just pleased that we’d still be seated together. I squeezed the hand that held mine as we found our seats – me in the aisle this time – and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Tom, I appreciate the thought. But I think I’ll be just fine as long as you’re here with me, okay?”

He smiled a bit warily, nodding his head, and went about stowing his items under the seat in front of him. I marveled at the insecurity that could still pour forth from such an enigmatic person, wanting to find the words to soothe him as he’d done for me so many times in the past. Placing a hand softly on his shoulder to get his attention, I waited until he sat back in his seat before speaking to him again.

“Remember the Tate Gala?” I asked, staring into his eyes meaningfully. “When we got out of the car and I started to panic a bit? You said ‘I’ve got you.’ I’ve never forgotten that.”

I could see him relaxing at the memory, despite the hideousness of his actions later that night. He had attempted to start off on the right foot when we met – despite how he felt about me at the time – and I found that I was remembering those sorts of moments with more and more clarity. A small part of him was trying to be good to me all along.

Tom smiled and grabbed my hand once more in his, squeezing it lightly.

“I’ve got you, Kate.”

The words warmed me just as they had on the night we met, and I kissed his temple, then his brow, with kindness.

It didn’t occur to me until after takeoff that the other travelers in first class were looking at us with a kind of envy, a softness around the eyes, that I felt sure Tom hadn’t witnessed from onlookers during his time with Taylor.

 

 

Exhaustion didn’t even cover the sensation I felt by the time our private car pulled to a stop under the majestic porticoes of _Aulani._ I’d spent the last several hours on planes, in airports, on a shuttle, and in the car to get to a beautiful paradise, and I began to understand that this vacation was indeed coming with a price. My body was worn out.

Tom, to his credit, noticed immediately and made our check-in as efficient as possible, although I knew he was just as tired as I was. Our bags were thankfully whisked away by concierge services, and the manager of the hotel pulled Tom aside briefly to speak to him about security concerns and matters of privacy – things which, we were assured, would be taken care of during our two week stay.

“Darling,” Tom motioned me over to speak with the stately gentleman at the front desk, “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Mills, the general manager of the resort.”

I held out my hand, brightening my smile.

“Pleased to meet you, sir. You have a gorgeous property here,” I praised. “And I must say I’m a lifelong Disney fan, so I’ll be extremely easy to please!”

As if my words had conjured favor from the gods themselves, two beautiful Hawaiian women appeared in the lobby, bedecking Tom and me in fragrant, luscious leis. The manager smiled and thanked me for my kind comments, then redirected his attention to Tom once more.

“Anything you or your wife need, Mr. Hiddleston, we’ll be happy to accommodate. The ‘Ahu ‘Ula Suite is truly one of our proudest achievements.”

I noticed Tom didn’t correct the man’s assumption about our marital status, and I didn’t say a word. I told myself I was too tired to care about correcting his mistake, but a small part of me, ashamedly, colored in pleasure at being called Tom’s wife so publicly.

Thanking the manager once more, Tom and I followed a pleasant young bellhop toward the Waianae Tower’s top floor, where our suite awaited us. Tom was so kind to everyone, I noticed – fans in the airport, hotel staff, even people we passed on our way to the ‘Ahu ‘Ula Suite. Whether or not it was for show, I realized that his manners truly set him apart from some of the less than kind men I’d dated throughout my life.

I’d been on dates where guys were blatantly rude to servers, to taxi drivers, to everyone. And yet this man I was with, a person I’d had the lowest opinion of at more than one point, went out of his way to speak and be nice to anyone he had contact with. As he tipped the bellhop and opened our suite door for me, I kissed him fully on the mouth.

“Thank you,” I stated simply.

He looked adorably confused.

“I haven’t done anything, my darling,” he replied, blowing out a low whistle at the spacious beauty of our accommodations. “Which bedroom would you like?”

_Oh. I forgot. I had insisted on separate bedrooms, hadn’t I?_

Bless him; he looked so tired, his tall, lanky form showing fatigue from every angle. I gently placed my bags on the shiny hardwood floor of the living area and cocked my head to the side, smiling gently at him.

“You take the master, sleepy boy. I’m sure that bed is big enough for you, Legs,” I teased good-naturedly.

“Are you sure, darling? I don’t mind giving you the better of the accommodations,” he countered, setting his own bags down across the room from me.

“I’m sure, Tom. I’m going to have a shower, okay?” I moved toward him to wrap my arms around him in a big hug, sighing in relaxation when his arms wound around my waist. Together, we stared at the deep blue ocean view from the windows framing our lengthy balcony.

“You take as long as you like, my beauty. Would you like me to have some food sent up?” Tom asked.

I was about to answer when a large clap of thunder boomed around us, and through the sunshine and blue sky, a small storm emerged, drenching the flora and fauna below.

“Goodness,” I startled a bit. “That was unexpected!”

Tom laughed, releasing me and steering me toward the suite’s second, smaller bedroom at the opposite end of the room.

“How about I surprise you, darling? You go get cleaned up and we’ll eat after, yes?”

I gave a soft, compliant “okay” as I grabbed some of my luggage and made my way into the second of the bedrooms. It was still spacious, with its own huge bed, a desk where I could get work done if needed, and a spectacular view of the Pacific all its own. I could lounge on a love seat and watch television, or I could read on my very own portion of veranda.

Listening to Tom’s deep voice placing a room service order, I grabbed a comfortable bra and panty set, a loose-fitting, tropical print romper, and my toiletries, and headed toward the luxurious shower that awaited my usage.

After I stripped off my filthy traveling clothes, I stepped into the shower and turned on the hottest water, allowing the steam to relax me even further as I washed my hair, shaved my legs, and filled the air with the fragrance of peach body wash. The scrubbing helped to alleviate a bit of fatigue, and I could hear and feel my stomach growling at the thought of food being delivered to us.

Would he order something I didn’t like? Or did he know me well enough to pick something good?

I decided it would be the first of many tests during our vacation. How much attention had he paid me during our working relationship? How well did he know me? And would he follow through on all of his so-called promises?

Finishing my shower, I toweled off, tied my wet hair into a topknot, then began to dress and put on a bit of lotion and makeup.

 _Just because you’re on vacation doesn’t mean you can let yourself go_ , I mused.

I didn’t want to be honest with myself that I wanted to look good for him.

 

 

Tom’s lunch choices were an unmitigated success, and we both ate our fill while seated on the expansive veranda of the suite, watching the rain drift away and hearing the noise of the thunder moving offshore with it. The small talk was pleasant, and I realized we were so hungry and tired that there wasn’t a lot to say.

“So, two weeks here,” Tom proclaimed, placing a linen napkin on his empty plate and sitting back to quirk an eyebrow at me. “Are you sure you won’t get tired of my company, Kate?”

_He’s nervous! Oh my god…after everything!_

I decided to tease him, feeling slightly pleased that he could still be uncomfortable around me.

“This suite is rather large, Hiddleston,” I winked. “If I tire of your company I’ll simply go to another room, or out on the beach, or to the pool, or…”

He growled softly, launching out of his chair to make his way around the table. I squealed as he picked me up easily in his arms, carrying me inside and closing the sliding doors behind us. Confusion dawned on me as he moved us through the living area and toward his bedroom – the master – instead of depositing me in the common area or in my own room.

“Tom…what–” I started, but he deftly placed me against the pillows of his sumptuous four-poster bed, moving to the windows to close the blinds, plunging the room into a sleepy dimness.

“Curl up, darling. It’s time we napped for awhile,” he murmured, moving back toward the bed and eyeing my long, exposed legs with not a little appreciation.

I was so tired that I didn’t fight the need to escape; the bed welcomed me and I slipped easily beneath the duvet, nestling down into a comfortable position. I hummed a contented sound when I felt Tom slip under the covers beside me, then pull me back against his broad chest, the softness of his t-shirt and sleep pants enveloping me in comfort.

“We have dinner reservations under the stars tonight at _‘Ama ‘Ama_ ,” he whispered against my ear, and I shivered for what seemed to be the hundredth time at his sinfully sweet voice. “And I want you to wear something for me. Can you do that?” he asked.

I snorted a bit, an undignified sound. Turning around to face him in the darkness, I scowled.

“Is this like when you used to play dress up with me, per Luke’s instructions?” I queried, trying to move away a bit in annoyance. His grip tightened – not in a threatening way, but enough to still my movements so I would listen to his words.

“This is _not_ like that and _you know it_. I’ve already divulged that Luke made those choices, darling. I bought you a beautiful wrap dress to wear because I think you’ll look ravishing in it,” he explained. “Think of it as an engagement present.”

“And what if I don’t like it?” I asked stubbornly.

“How about this, darling,” he soothed, running a hand along my back, arm, and hip, “if you hate it, I buy dinner. If you like it, I still buy dinner.”

And then he began to tickle me mercilessly.

I tried to fight him, but I was gasping for breath and laughing too hard to retain any kind of strength. Tom finally had mercy on me.

“Will you wear it?” he persisted.

Breathing heavily, I acquiesced, fatigue pulling at me once more.

“Yes.”

I could sense his satisfaction at my compliance, and allowed sleep to pull at me as Tom gathered me closer to him, burying his face against the side of my neck and wrapping his arms around my waist. I let him tangle our legs together under the sheets, and I placed my tiny hand atop his, threading our fingers together at my abdomen.

“Sleep now, my gorgeous girl, my beautiful Kate.”

I embraced my rest as Tom pressed warm kisses to the nape of my neck, stroking my stomach through the silken material of my romper.

My dreams that afternoon were rife with images of a tiny child holding hands with her father: a tall, handsome man who had the world at his feet.


	11. Think We'd Be Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Kate haven't even been in Hawaii for 24 hours and already they're having problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers!
> 
> I'm sorry/not sorry this update is a long time coming, and here's why. I really want to make this story perfect, and as with the last few chapters, I'm writing and re-writing and trashing and re-starting things because our beautiful couple has a lot to say.
> 
> ALSO...I've created a Pinterest account specifically for my fics! Yes! You can see outfits and face claims of all my OFCs and all the goodies mentioned in my stories! I'll add to the board(s) as needed, and please expect a new one for each new fic or one-shot that pops up. Please feel free to yell at me about my choice of women that inspire my characters. Ha!
> 
> Go here: www.pinterest.com/lalumierefics
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me and reading...your comments keep me going! I love ya!
> 
> xoxo

“Everyone is staring at you, Tom,” I tried to whisper discreetly as many of the diners turned in their seats to stare at our table.

Delicately draping a linen napkin in my lap, I took a nervous sip of the ice water in front of me. Then, I rearranged the folds of Tom’s new gift: a delicate, blush-pink maxi dress with barely-there straps and swathes of luxurious fabric that spilled over my chair. When I rearranged myself, the billowing skirt parted in the center, affording a generous view of my legs to those who could see me. 

“No, my darling,” Tom rebutted as our waiter approached, ready to take our orders, “everyone is staring at _you.”_

He removed a hand from his menu to reach across the small table and hold my left hand, gently stroking the ruby. I shivered at his predatory, possessive tone and, looking up from my ‘Ama ‘Ama menu, gave a second shiver at the look in Tom’s eyes – pure desire somehow mixed with reverence. 

“Would you like me to order for you, beautiful?” Tom asked as he watched me in my continued fidgeting state. He gave me a small smile, trying to be encouraging, but I felt as though everyone around us was frozen, glances locked on our table, waiting for something to happen. I felt exposed in the dress – regardless of how sumptuous and alluring it was.

I simply nodded, handing my menu to the waiter, avoiding Tom’s eyes as I took in the setting sun dipping into the Pacific.

“We’ll both have the Shrimp Orecchiette ala Checca, please,” Tom requested, “and send out a bottle of your best white wine, also. Thank you.” 

I smiled at the waiter to let him know I wasn’t a complete crusty-bitch-slash-crazy-head case, and then ran my fingers nervously through my hair as a soft ocean breeze twirled some of the blond strands around. 

“Are you nervous because there are people that might be watching us? Or are you nervous because of how you look, Kate?” Tom queried in mild concern mixed with a bit of amusement. “I wouldn’t worry about either of those things; you’re quite difficult to look away from, lovely.” 

A blush bloomed across my cheeks and crept down my neck.

“Would you feel a bit better if I moved to sit beside you?” he continued. 

I wasn’t sure if that would make things better or worse, but the thought of Tom’s person shielding me a bit from prying eyes had me nodding my head fervently and biting my lip as I stole another glance to my left, then right. People were smiling knowingly at the two of us. 

Without a word, Tom moved his chair easily around the table to sit at my left side, both of us now facing an enchanting view of the evening sunset melting into the calm blue of the ocean. As his right arm curled around the back of my chair, I felt my spine relax and my rigid posture soften. I placed my head on Tom’s shoulder, my body involuntarily seeking his security, and exhaled a deep breath to steady the remains of my nerves. 

“Darling, I have something else for you,” Tom murmured, a devilish little note in his tone. “Sit up, please.” 

He was suddenly so matter of fact that I was startled to attention, ignoring my fears about any nosy onlookers around us. Turning to look at Tom with a raised eyebrow, I was met with a little box sliding onto the table beside my silverware. It was totally nondescript, just a black box that had metal hinges – no store name, no _Amor Aeternus_ to be seen. I wasn’t sure what to do, especially since I didn’t know what to expect. After all, I already had a gargantuan engagement ring. 

What had he done now? 

“Go on then, sweet. Open it,” Tom coaxed, nodding at me. 

Our waiter returned at that moment with two wine glasses and a chilled bottle of chardonnay, and I waited somewhat impatiently as the young man poured our drinks, wiped the lip of the wine bottle, and took his leave after asking us if we needed anything else. I didn’t even bother to answer; my eyes were too busy trying to burn holes through the little black box in front of me. 

Without a word, Tom suddenly swept my wavy curtain of hair off the nape of my neck – it was getting a bit warm even as the sun set – and artfully twisted it into a knot with his fingers, checking to make sure the messy style would stay before moving his left hand to my knee and his right to the back of my chair. 

“There now, Kate. Now you can open,” he smiled. 

Confused as ever, I gingerly reached for the box and separated the top portion from the bottom by its hinges. 

_Oh my god._

“They’re Burmese rubies,” he explained in a hushed tone right next to my ear. “Take out your earrings, love.”

I caught myself before I could take out my much simpler – _much less expensive_ – diamond and pearl studs. 

“Tom,” I snipped a bit, “this is too much.” 

The earrings were surrounded by diamond florets; I didn’t want to know how much the pair cost him. They were indeed very beautiful, though. And I couldn’t help but notice that they matched my ring perfectly. I took a rather large gulp of wine, startling a bit when I felt the warmth of Tom’s lips suddenly against my left ear. 

“I said, take out your earrings,” he repeated, pressing a barely-there kiss to the shell and lobe of my ear. 

Ashamedly, I did as I was told.

“Give those to me, darling. They’re quite lovely, but I’d rather you try these on for me tonight.”

Handing over my beloved pearls, I gently grasped one of the ruby earrings between my fingers and, detaching the post from the velvet lining of the box, set to putting it on; its twin soon followed. Tom made a satisfied “ _hm_ ” sound and sat back in his chair a bit, toying with the sensitive skin at the back of my now-exposed neck.

“Now that they’ve lit torches out here, darling, your jewelry shines with even more fire and brilliance. You are truly, truly the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever known…” he trailed off, staring out into the rapidly dimming evening. Stars began to twinkle, nestled in the sky above.

I wasn’t above loving extravagant things, but Tom’s current gesture made me uncomfortable in its similarity to our previous relationship – a relationship that was rife with overindulgent gifts. And although I’d learned that Luke Windsor was responsible for many of those things, Tom showering me with expensive items was a little too reminiscent of our complicated past. It set my fears back into motion.

“You don’t like them, lovely?” Tom frowned, sensing my discomfort and the returning rigidity of my spine. He leaned closer to finger one of the jewels, slightly tickling my earlobe in the process. “I think they’re marvelous on you.” 

I looked into my lap for a moment, trying to combat the blush on my skin and the uneasy feeling in my stomach. 

“Tom, they’re really beautiful, yes, but…” I struggled. I couldn’t tell whether he was back to showing off or if this was supposed to be another grand gesture. Hadn’t he only promised me a maxi dress with dinner?

“But you don’t want them?” he guessed. 

I didn’t miss the slightly wounded sound in his voice. 

He fiddled with his fork and took a sip of wine, avoiding my gaze as I struggled to rectify the situation. 

“I’m…”

Was this turning into another bribery situation?

Had something else happened that he felt the need to atone for? 

Nausea flourished within me. I swallowed thickly, grabbing for my water glass and accidentally knocking it over, spilling water all over the table.

“Shit!” I cursed softly, still half mindful that we were surrounded by interested people. I moved out of my chair to mop up the puddle of water rapidly coursing along the table, refusing Tom’s help and flinching from the touch of his hand on my back. 

Another ‘Ama ‘Ama server had mercy on me, coming over to bring me a fresh linen napkin and refilling my water glass. I focused on the pretty girl, whose name tag said Leilani. 

“Everything all right ma’am?” she asked kindly. I didn’t miss how her eyes darted back and forth between Tom and me as she stood beside our table. “Tua has asked me to tell you your food should be out shortly.”

I did my best to thank the young lady, as did Tom, and took a deep breath before situating myself back in my chair. Despite my fervent, silent prayers, Tom had not moved an inch away from me. And he still had a confused, concerned look on his handsome face.

“Have I offended you, Kate?” he finally asked plainly. “Please be honest, darling. Remember? That’s what we’re supposed to be doing.”

I watched, sort of rapt, as he began to roll up the shirtsleeves of his white Oxford button down, something that never failed to capture my attention. I’d seen him do it a handful of times before, and I could never seem to look away. The flex of his forearms, the smattering of freckles along his skin, those graceful fingers turning the sleeves upward and upward again… 

Finally reaching successfully without incident for my water, I took a rather large draw, swallowed, blew out a breath, and turned in my seat to face Tom more directly. 

_Here goes._

“How much are these?” I inquired, motioning to the jewelry adorning my ears. 

Tom answered, completely nonchalant.

“Thirty-two thousand dollars…give or take.” 

I bit my lip and looked away to avoid either spluttering in disbelief or screaming at his outlandishness in front of an audience. Then I continued. 

“Why did you buy them for me? To go with the ring?”

I tried to keep my tone even but mild hysteria was creeping in, sure and steady. Tom gave a little huff of a laugh, looking away from me just as our food arrived. I was relieved to have something else to pay attention to for the moment and I thanked Tua, the waiter, profusely. 

When we found ourselves alone once more, I began to dig into my meal to give my hands something to do and my brain something to focus on, but Tom wrapped a large hand around one of my wrists to stop me. In a quiet voice – not sinister but somehow not saccharine either – he answered me. 

“I purchased those _long_ before you got your ring, darling.” 

He looked irritated at my line of questioning, so I tore my wrist from his grip and took a bite of shrimp. Tom accepted my silence as permission to explain himself. 

“It’s quite interesting when you think about it,” he continued in a low voice that undulated all the way down into my belly. “I’ve had these to give to you for about seven months, now. At first they were a going-away gift when you announced you were leaving Prosper. And then I had them with me when I came to you in the Cotswolds. I was going to give them to you that evening…”

I knew exactly which evening he was talking about.

“…but you left, and I thought that was as good a sign as any that you were done with me.”

My head whipped to the side to look at him, and I could see the muscles of his jaw tic as he worked to keep emotion off of his face. We were in public, after all, and we needed to play the happily engaged pair. Curiosity was pouring out of me like blood from a severed vein. 

“At _first?_ What were they for in the _end?”_ I asked, no longer concerned with keeping my cool or avoiding any public displays of…something. 

His response was so rushed and seemingly embarrassed that I had to ask him to repeat it.

“Excuse me?” I prodded.

Nostrils flaring and eyes dilated, Tom turned on me, both hands on the table as he invaded my space. 

“I said I wanted them to be a declaration of my obsessive _love_ for you!” he hissed. “If you hadn’t been so obtuse and hadn’t left me you would have known that!”

I’d never seen or heard his hurt so clearly before. It brought tears to my eyes.

“I need to take a walk,” Tom announced, quietly standing from his chair and tossing his napkin onto the table before he strode away from the restaurant and down into the sand that stretched out before us.

Slouching back in my chair and trying to focus on finishing the delectable food that had been placed in front of me, I realized how heavy my soul suddenly felt.

I’d confirmed all of his fears about loving someone the day I’d left him in that cottage. 

He didn’t come back to finish dinner, even though I waited for two hours. I enjoyed the food as best I could, and had three too many glasses of the white wine, feeling a pleasurable haze settle over me with the soundtrack of lapping ocean water filling my ears. 

_Great start to a vacation,_ I berated myself.

I was startled out of my semi-comatose state at the table when a little girl tapped me on my shoulder. Standing beside me, she was just my height when I was seated. She had bright blue eyes, and two perfect plaits of strawberry blond hair cascading down her back. The red and white polka dot dress she wore couldn’t have been anything other than an homage to Minnie Mouse. 

“Are you Loki’s girlfriend?” she asked me sweetly, reaching out in her interest to touch the soft fabric of my dress without thinking about it.

A woman, presumably her mother, suddenly appeared at her side.

“I’m so sorry she got away from us!” the older woman apologized. “She recognized your…” 

“Fiancé,” I finished for her.

“Yes, him, during dinner and she wanted to come over and say hello. Has he gone?” the woman asked. She looked all around the restaurant, but Tom was nowhere to be seen. I could practically see the disappointment on her face.

“I believe he may have gone for a walk for awhile, yes,” I replied, still watching the little girl touching my dress. “What’s your name?” I asked her. 

“Madeleine,” she replied, her attention now on the bright red shiny jewels at my ears. “Ooh, mommy! Look! She has pretty earrings!”

I smiled at the little girl and was suddenly jolted back to the dream I’d had only hours ago: a little girl, blue-eyed and blond-haired like her father. The remembrance hit me in the gut; having the love of a child, having the love of a man who would make that child with me… 

Tenderly, I took Madeleine’s little round face in my hands and smiled at her. “Are you having fun?” I asked.

She nodded, and began to start talking about meeting Mickey and Goofy at a character breakfast the previous day. Her mother could sense that I was only half paying attention, so she grabbed her daughter’s hand. 

“Come on, Madeleine,” she coaxed. “Let’s let the beautiful lady enjoy her evening, okay?” 

And with a little wave of her tiny fingers, the girl was gone. 

I didn’t realize I was crying until Tua returned and asked if I needed anything else, namely dessert. When he noticed my tears, he knelt beside my chair and asked if there was anything he could do. 

“No, thank you,” I gave him a watery smile.

Signing off on our room information, I thanked Tua for his excellent service and gathered my sandals in my hand to make my way onto the beach, going in much the same direction Tom had. It was a quiet night, even with the hundreds of people littering the resort. I was in my own world, at once struck by the natural beauty around me yet also deeply unsettled that Tom and I hadn’t lasted more than a day together without a confrontation erupting between us. My heart ached at the thought that we’d never make any progress. 

He was too broken. 

Or maybe I was too untrusting? 

Perhaps it was an insidious combination of both.

And yet I’d wanted honesty – he’d given it – and I reacted rather badly. 

Where I came from, spending the kind of money Tom had spent on tiny trifles just wasn’t possible. And he’d never seemed to be outlandish with his fortune – but perhaps this was who he truly was? Frivolous? I was still convinced it was some poorly planned gesture to try and lure me into his bed, much as the “old Tom” would’ve done. 

Why couldn’t I accept the gift as an outstanding gesture of, what had he said? 

"Obsessive love" for me. 

I did admit it was odd that he’d picked out rubies for me – long before I’d ever decided to seal our second fate by asking for a ruby engagement ring. That part gnawed at something in me…like this was all meant to be. But I was a little drunk, and I found the notion of “signs” and “fate” ridiculous. So I stumbled along the beach a bit, twirling around in my little pink dress and feeling the blur of tears in my eyes every so often. I spent a good hour on the beach, trying to stay away from the suite and yet hoping to run into Tom somewhere outside, but to no avail. 

When I started to feel the effects of jet lag once more, I reluctantly made my way back toward the main buildings, past the opulent pool and lazy river. 

And I saw something sparkling. 

Tiny little lights were glowing in a turtle-shaped formation on a nearby rock – or what I knew was probably not a rock, given Disney’s penchant for making objects appear real – and I could see two children pointing a little object at it, laughing with their parents and grandparents. The child within me who’d loved Disney for years was extremely curious, so I walked over and politely asked the family what they were doing. They gave me a once-over, noticing my immaculately dressed state and the fact that I was tipsy and probably acting too friendly. 

“It’s called the Menehune Adventure Trail,” the younger husband said. “They’re hidden all over _Aulani_ and you can find them, along with other surprises. Just go inside to the front desk and they’ll help you out,” he explained. 

I’d remembered reading something about the ancient lore behind the Menehune of Hawaii, the famed “little people” who snacked on island fruits and helped to build many important structures there. _Aulani_ had cleverly hidden images of them tucked away throughout its property, and I was eager to see what I could find once the sun rose the next day. 

Thanking the family and begging their pardon for my interruption, I carefully made my way to the main “house” of the resort in search of the front desk and some answers to my curiosity. I measured my steps carefully – putting my shoes back on as I came inside – as I was still feeling slightly flushed and high from my after dinner alcohol intake. 

Unable to help myself, I looked around every so often to see if Tom was anywhere nearby. 

He was not.

And although I hated to admit it, I missed him. After only a few hours. 

The longer we were apart the more I began to worry that I’d truly been out of line at dinner. 

Or had I? I thought the gift was inappropriate – especially since he’d spent so much on something so trivial, acting as though we were really and truly together…engaged, even. It shouldn’t have surprised me that he was going “hell for leather”, as he so oft loved to say, in his attempts to woo me. But hadn’t he said he’d had the earrings long before now? Was it actually possible that I could have been his end game all along? Had he lied when he said all of my clothes and previous gifts were Luke’s doing?

I didn’t know what to think. Again. 

And yet, when I approached the two young women working at the front desk, I felt myself smile in pleasure when they saw the sparkling rubies and diamonds at my ears. Their eyes widened just enough for me to notice, and I allowed myself to admit, just for a moment, that I loved the earrings. 

That I wanted him to spoil me. 

That I could allow myself to be pleasantly surprised by him for the rest of my life.

“Aloha, ma’am,” said Kala, the older of the two ladies. “How can we help you this evening?”

I smiled at them both and began asking after the Menehune hidden around the resort. I vaguely remembered something about a device provided by _Aulani_ that allowed the “magic” to happen for those who wanted to hunt the little people on their own time. In no time, Kala filled me in on the procedures and ensured me that I would have a magical time (of course!) traversing the grounds to find the many hidden treasures of the resort. 

“I’m pretty sure I saw one in the elevators when I arrived,” I recalled pleasantly. 

Malie, the other woman with beautiful dark hair coiled at the nape of her neck, next handed me a decorated flyer with all manner of information on it; I took it from her with thanks. 

“This is what we call the ‘ _Daily ‘IWA_ ’, cousin,” she explained. “It has a listing of daily activities and entertainment around the resort each day. We don’t want you to miss out on a thing while you’re here!” 

Profusely thanking the women for their help, I bade them both goodnight and made my way back through the lobby area so I could return to the ‘Ahu ‘Ula suite, my stomach suddenly nervous at the thought that Tom might be there – and he might not be too pleased to see me. 

_Good job, Kate. You couldn’t even get through one day of this together!_

To settle my nerves as I made my way back, I skimmed the _‘IWA_ for interesting things to check out the following day: 

_  
_

_Lei making_

_Sunset photography classes_

_Live music_

_Starlit hui nighttime dinner show_

_Disney animation_

_Snorkeling_

_Ocean yoga_

_Fire pit storytelling_

  


The list went on and on, and I felt myself relaxing at the idea of some yoga and fun activities during my stay. I needed to work while Tom and I vacationed here, but if tonight was any indication of the dynamic between us, I would need a lot of things to alleviate stress and divert my attention. 

My steps slowed as I approached the entrance to our suite, and I swallowed thickly, listening for a moment as if I might be able to hear Tom from within, talking on his phone to Luke – or worse, to some nameless woman. 

Or maybe even _her._

I still wasn’t sure how he was channeling his emotions these days when things took a turn. Hell, I wasn’t managing mine very well. And judging from the fact that I readily assumed he’d find solace in another woman so easily, my trust in him was all but nonexistent. Whether I was in the wrong or not, he had a lot of work to do to prove himself to me.

_It’s now or never…_

I unlocked the suite door and quietly opened it into the entryway, slipping off my shoes and uncoiling the knot in my hair Tom had made during dinner, flicking my tresses loose with the twist of a few fingers. Some lights were on, and as I made my way into the large living room space, I was hit with Tom’s scent: masculine, warm…it did what it always managed to do to me. My heart sped, my blood pulsed in my veins, and my head swam a bit. 

I tried to attribute these things to the wine in my body, but I was finally reaching a point where I could no longer deny his effects on me. 

His back was to me, although I knew from his posture that he’d heard me come in and he was being very careful not to make the first move. I managed to freeze, too, staring at the lean yet muscled silhouette of his back, still clad in his white dress shirt. The sleeves were still crisply rolled up his forearms, and his long legs were still encased in those infuriatingly tailored trousers he favored. 

When he turned to look at me, I saw his face was flushed and he’d unbuttoned two buttons of the shirt. He said nothing, but I felt myself flinch when I saw traces of moisture on his face. 

He’d been crying. 

My legs moved of their own accord, right to him, my arms outstretched. 

“Tom…” I began, automatically seeking to comfort him. To my surprise, he moved back and away from me. 

It was only two steps, but they felt like he’d fled to another place entirely.

Looking away from me, he spoke softly as he wiped his face with one hand.

“Go sit down.” 

Whatever things I’d expected him to say, those words weren’t it. The command wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t broken, either.

I obeyed.

I was desperate to make things right, and I couldn’t bear the thought of two weeks of tension and unhappiness because I couldn’t control my thoughts or feelings about his own thoughts and feelings towards me. Arranging myself tentatively on the edge of the couch, my shoulders sank a bit as I watched Tom move slowly toward me. 

One of the tiny, silken straps of my dress fell down my slouched shoulder, and as he sat beside me, he very lightly traced his forefinger underneath the strap, sliding it back up to nestle against my collarbone. Goosebumps erupted along my arm, moving down my side, clear to my toes – just from the strange intimacy of that one small touch.

“Do you like them?” 

His question caught me off guard, but I knew exactly what he meant. Instead of taking him to task again, I simply elected to answer his question. 

I stood up, situated myself so I was standing in front of where he sat, and then proceeded to perch myself in his lap, my knees on either side of his hipbones and my arms lightly resting on his shoulders.

“Yes,” I replied plainly. “They make me feel very beautiful.” 

“That was my only intent,” he continued, reaching up to run fingers through my hair and pulling me slightly closer to his chest in the process. The gesture soothed me; we weren’t fighting – we were talking openly. 

“I’m still getting used to things about money,” I confessed, not looking away from him. My own hands now mirrored his as I ran fingers through his hair, too. 

Nodding a bit, Tom sucked on his teeth for a moment. “I’ll let you carry on about how much I spend on you when we’re married.” 

My breath caught in my throat at that, at his surety of _when._ He continued.

“What’s yours is mine and all that…until then, you’ll just have to suffer,” he suddenly leaned forward, moving his face closer and closer to mine. “What could ever be so wrong about giving you beautiful things and making you feel like the most treasured woman in the world?”

The last word was breathed from his mouth to my own, and I could practically taste the desire ghosting his lips. 

The initiative was mine; there were no cameras or onlookers as I grabbed his face in my hands and kissed him forcefully, relishing in the groan that emitted from deep in his chest. I licked feverishly at his lips, whining in gratitude as his hands slipped from my hair down my arms to rest on my hips, which had begun to move against the hardening flesh encased in his dress pants. 

Tearing his mouth from me, Tom growled when his hands discovered just how thin the material of the dress was. 

“You’re not…wearing anything underneath, are you?”

I gave a soft “no” as I moved to his ear, beginning to trail light kisses along the side of his neck and throat, relishing the feeling of those large hands – those devilishly long fingers – grasping at my gently canting hips.

My head was suddenly tilted gently to the side as a wet kiss landed on my suprasternal notch, and then I felt one of Tom’s hands twist in my unbound hair to pull my focus back a bit. His voice was hoarse, choked; it wasn’t from arousal – although I could see the markers of such a state in his eyes and pulse – but rather from a place of strong emotion.

“How could you _ever_ think I would want anyone but you?” he questioned, suddenly looking helpless. “I’ve wanted to give you everything I had for so long." Then, delicately tracing one of the rubies still adorning my ear: “What do I have to do to get you to trust in me, my gorgeous Katherine?”

I gasped quietly at the usage of my full, given name. 

He’d never used it before.

 _I never even knew he knew it!_

Tom smiled at my barely-veiled surprise. “I know you, my darling. I know you better than you think, better than you want to _admit._ I know what you like, what you fear – I know what interests you and what turns you on. I know what you want to run from, just as you know what I've _tried_ to run from.”

He lazily ran the backs of his fingers down my exposed throat, traversing a path all the way down my décolletage until he splayed his fingers at my belly.

“I know that I can give you _everything,”_ he finished, looking down at my abdomen where his hand rested most possessively.

I breathed out a shaky exhale, my body quivering at his words and his familiar touches. 

“Not bad for our first post-reunion fight, is it, lovely?” he smiled. “Are we okay?” 

Had I not known him well enough, I would have heard bravery in the tone; what I heard instead was anxiety _masked_ as bravery. I curled my fingers around the hand cradling the flat of my stomach and nodded, smiling.

“We’re okay.”

Placing a kiss on Tom’s forehead, I suddenly had to stifle a yawn. 

“Tuckered out, sweet?” Tom asked with concern. “I’m sure your body is still adjusting to the time change, yes?” 

I nodded, smiling sleepily and feeling myself relax now that our strange evening was drawing to a close.

“May I help you get ready for bed?” he spoke softly.

Some part of me knew it was a bad idea, but I was somehow feeling secure after our exchange; I suddenly wanted to see how far I could get with him – see how prepared he was to do as I wanted and not as _he_ wanted. 

“Yes,” I acquiesced as I stood. 

Taking his hand, I led him through the living area, past the kitchen, and into my bedroom, turning on some ambient lighting as I went. He stopped, leaning in the doorway of the room as I meandered to the windows, closing the draperies and closing off our view of the starry Pacific night outside. Once I returned to my bedside, I slid out of the dress, letting the sumptuous blush fabric pool at my feet before stepping out of it. 

Raising my chin to meet Tom’s gaze, I watched as he took stock of my current state: adorned only in ruby and diamond jewelry without a stitch covering my body. 

His control impressed me; the only giveaway was the clench of his jaw and the delicious bulge in his trousers.

Licking his lips, Tom followed me with his hooded eyes as I made my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth and ready myself for sleep. I could breathe again once I closed the bathroom door, running the water to drown out the frantic beating of my heart.

 _You’re calling the shots,_ I remarked in my head. _He’s letting you dictate this now_.

Dr. Hart had indeed done some good work, getting Tom to a place where he was comfortable with ceding control; he wasn’t using sex to distract or bargain, and he was hearing what I was saying – and not saying – to him. The amount of trust he was placing in me to enter this arrangement and to open up to the possibility of a relationship was finally occurring to me. 

We were both going to have to learn to put an extraordinary amount of faith in one another.

I slipped on my black silk robe I’d laid out in the bathroom upon arrival, and cinched it loosely at the waist before opening the door and turning out the light. Tom was seated at the edge of my bed in boxers and one of his threadbare shirts, patting the space beside him for me to sit. 

The moment I sat beside him, he swept the hair away from my face and delicately removed the earrings from my ears, placing them on the bedside table near us. With a raised eyebrow that sometimes signaled mischief – but in this instance illustrated uncertainty - Tom asked if he could stay with me.

“Would it be weird if I wanted to sleep in your bed tonight?”

He was so earnest that I laughed a little, smiling at his question. “Getting used to sleeping alongside me, Hiddleston?” I teased. 

He nodded, kissing me sweetly so I could taste the minty freshness of toothpaste. 

“I brushed and got ready while you did too,” he stated, looking away for a moment, as though he were trying to hide something. My heart ached as it did every time he had one of these moments now – indecision and awkwardness written on his every feature. The vulnerability I’d so wanted to see when we first worked together was slowly allowing itself to be known. 

“Am I being too pushy?” Tom asked, embarrassed. He made to move away but I caught his arm and playfully yanked it toward me.

“ _No_ ,” I emphasized. “In fact, you’re being wonderful. But, um,” I gestured to my robe, “should I put on some clothes?” 

The tips of his ears reddened slightly, and I marveled at how this normally ravenously sexual man was now acting chaste and careful around me.

“I think that might be good.”

I nodded too, standing up to move to my suitcase, when I too made a confession that had me blushing.

“Uhm, Tom? Could I maybe wear one of your shirts?”

His grin as he bolted for the master bedroom told me all I needed to know. 

I took the opportunity of his absence to put on a pair of panties and a small pair of striped peach and gray sleep shorts, knowing he’d bring me one of his big white v-necks. 

_And it’ll smell like him…_

After his return, Tom busied himself turning down the bed to our liking as I pulled his soft, worn shirt over my head. The cotton fabric soothed me into a pleasant fatigue, and I held out my hand to Tom to signal that it was time to crawl into bed and catch up on some much-needed shuteye. 

Once settled, I reached across him to turn out the bedside lamp and, nestled together as we were, he caught my left hand in his own. 

“Don’t forget to take off the ring, darling.”

I shook my head at him and kissed his temple before turning off the light. “I don’t take it off much anymore,” I answered. 

Small though my fingers were, Tom managed to curl all of the fingers of his right hand around my ring finger before whispering a loving _“goodnight”_ into the darkness.  



	12. You Could Be Trusted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So many mixed emotions...so little time. Our lovers spend their first full afternoon in Hawaii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2017!
> 
> I'm back...quite late, yes. But I'm back nonetheless bearing gifts. Well, *a* gift...a bit of smut (finally!) between these two. I've saved it at the end of the chapter.
> 
> As always, inspirations are posted on my Pinterest account. Go here: www.pinterest.com/lalumierefics
> 
> This story keeps changing and re-writing itself. I sincerely never know what Tom and Kate are going to get into.
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always...give me a yell.
> 
> Love you. Appreciate you.
> 
> xoxo

I shot up in bed, cloaked in darkness, as nausea ripped through my stomach.

_Oh god,_ I thought. _I’m going to be sick_.

Trying to quickly untangle myself from both Tom and the bed sheets, I made my way as quickly and quietly as possible to the bathroom, reflexively gathering my hair in one hand to try and cool the flushing, hot sensation creeping up my neck. I took deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth while I closed the bathroom door with a near-silent _snikt_ sound.

Saliva gathered in my throat and mouth as another coil of ugly sickness lapped within my body.

I swallowed, continuing to breathe shaky breaths. Tears blurred my vision as I raced to wet a washcloth under chilly tap water; I’d always loathed vomiting – or even feeling sick – and it frightened me each and every time it happened. Even as an adult, the moments before my stomach would void itself, however rare, made me panic.

I lowered myself to the cool, expensive tile flooring aside the toilet bowl, propping up the seat in case my digestive system was indeed about to become overactive. I found it hard to keep breathing steadily in and out as tears were clogging my eyes and sinuses, making it difficult to get my breath properly. The chilled, wet washcloth I’d prepared soothed me slightly when I ran it along my forehead, neck, and décolletage.

“Darling? Are you ill?”

I hadn’t even heard him open the bathroom door.

_Thank fuck you’re not in here with your panties at your ankles sitting on the toilet,_ I mused wryly as I tried to control myself – and my stomach.

“Nauseous,” I whispered, barely fighting anxiety and willing the unpleasantness to leave me; this was _not_ how I wanted Tom to see me – especially not right as our vacation was beginning. I could hardly look at him; now I was not only nauseated, but also embarrassed.

I heard the sound of running water but couldn’t bring myself to look at Tom; I knew I must’ve been pale as a ghost, and I didn’t even want to think about him watching me heaving my guts into the toilet. He’d probably never think me attractive ever again.

_Since when did you even care about that?_

Trying to focus on deep breaths and the cold cloth, since my body demanded more of my attention than my pride, I was oblivious to Tom’s actions. And then I felt him sit down beside me on the floor.

“Please don’t touch me,” I breathed shallowly. “It’s nothing personal, but I don’t like to be held if I’m feeling sick…”

He ignored my protest, and I was very glad he did. He’d rinsed his hands in ice-cold water – probably uncomfortably cold for him¬ – and began to press them gently to my arms, shoulders, and neck. Anywhere the cool cloth wasn’t, Tom’s hands were.

I moaned in relief; the knot in my belly lessened a tiny bit.

“I’ve got you, remember?” He reiterated the words said many months ago at the Tate, words that seemed to pledge his devotion to me.

I felt myself relax in a feeling of security as his hands continued to sweep soothingly along my cooling flesh.

“Do you have any medicine with you, sweet?” Tom asked.

I nodded, pointing to my makeup bag atop the counter with a free hand as my other held the cloth to my temple. “In there…”

He scrambled away from me to root through the toiletries I’d brought, and returned swiftly with a little pink button of Pepto-Bismol for me to chew. I accepted it gratefully, yet I winced as always at the odd-tasting drug. I leaned back against the lip of the tub, swallowing what I’d chewed and blowing out a huge breath. A small measure of calm started to envelop me.

“Helps when someone’s with you if you’re feeling unwell, doesn’t it?” Tom asked, mirroring my actions and leaning against the bathtub too.

Putting the washcloth down beside me on the floor, I gave him a tired smile. “Yes. I always panic when I feel sick,” I admitted. It made me feel like a pathetic child, but I couldn’t help what I couldn’t control about myself.

“Maybe too much wine and rich food?” he queried, brushing some hair back from my face and grasping the washcloth in his own hands so he could run it down the sides of my neck and over my shoulders.

“I think so.” I put down the seat of the toilet, feeling that the moment had passed and most of my nausea had abated.

“We’ll take it easy on food tomorrow, then,” Tom reasoned. He got up once more with the washcloth and returned to the marble sink where he rinsed it anew with chilly water. I watched him sleepily from my perch on the floor, my heart rate returning to a more relaxed state and my breathing starting to normalize. I suddenly felt very awkward.

“I’m sorry I’m such a weakling,” I gave a tiny half-laugh as Tom came back to sit beside me, proffering the cool fabric between his fingers. “Nausea is probably the thing I hate most on this planet.”

“Lucky for you I’m here, then, isn’t it?” he answered with that classic grin of his. Mirth danced in his eyes, even in the dim light of the bathroom.

“I don’t know what I’d ever do if I had to deal with morning sickness.”

I thought I’d said that in my head…but apparently I’d mumbled it aloud, at a volume resonant enough for Tom to hear.

“Oh, my _darling,”_ he cooed, scooting closer to me but still being careful not to touch me, “the sicker the mummy, the _healthier_ the baby.”

I groaned, putting my face in my hands – hands that still held the washcloth. Tom thought another bout of nausea had started, and I could almost hear his anxious intake of breath at my current state. But I wasn’t sick; I was embarrassed I’d voiced my morning sickness fear out loud – it would just be another reminder to him about me, pregnant.

His seeming obsession.

“I can’t believe I said that,” I moaned in a tiny, chagrined voice.

A large hand lovingly rubbed large circles along my back, and I heard Tom’s sweet laugh next to me. “A normal fear, sweet girl, I assure you. But I can tell you that I would be there with you every step of the way. Cool flannels, dry crackers and ginger ale…and should you suffer severely, rest assured we would get you the best doctor to prescribe something to help.”

I looked up suddenly from my wet washcloth, eyes wide. “You’ve really given this some thought, haven’t you?” I accused mildly. It didn’t come out as bitingly as I felt it, but I was still trying to mask my surprise and _…arousal_ that he was so determined to have a baby with me.

Offering me an elegant hand to take as he stood up, he nodded solemnly.

“You have no idea, Kate. No idea.”

I couldn’t help my curiosity from seeping out, even though exhaustion was starting to claim me as we made our way out of the bathroom and back to my bed.

“I find it hard to believe that you’d be available for every aspect of a pregnancy – throwing up and all – if you’re in the middle of a shoot or promotional tour, or even rehearsals for a play, or trips with UNICEF…”

A yawn cut off my diatribe, but I still managed to look pointedly at Tom as he tucked himself back into bed beside me.

“I won’t touch you in case you’re still feeling nauseated, beautiful,” he replied, ignoring my question. He grabbed my hand to hold, though, before turning under the covers to face me on his side. “As soon as we find out we’re pregnant, I will be taking at least a nine-month hiatus from whatever I’m working on.”

I wasn’t sure which part of that statement freaked me out more: Tom stopping work for a lengthy period of time, or the fact that he kept saying _we._ I felt myself getting worked up with the unknown.

“But if you’re in the middle of a shoot or you’ve signed a contract or – ”

He stopped me with a gentle, barely-there kiss to my lips.

“Then my lawyers can deal with it. You’re still not getting it, my darling. I’ve got you. I plan on spending the rest of my life proving myself to you, even if I have to remind you of that fact ten times a day every day until my heart ceases to beat.”

My breath caught in my throat; this time, there was no nausea to accompany the sensation. “I don’t think you know what you’re saying,” I bit out, flushed with confusion and bewilderment once again at just how much Tom’s manner around me had changed.

“And _I_ think you’re scared of how much sense all of this makes,” he smiled, kissing my forehead before burrowing under the sheets even closer to me. His smile was genuine, but something in me balked.

“No, Tom, it doesn’t make sense. It feels like a switch has been flipped and you’re suddenly playing the part of a monogamous, loving, selfless man. I feel as though I don’t know you…again, I don’t think you really know what you’re saying.”

I wanted him to get mad, to fly into a rage and prove me right that he didn’t have the patience nor the authentic emotion to bolster his claims. But he just sighed sleepily and brushed a curl away from my forehead.

“Would you like me to back off?” he asked plainly.

As he asked, he held my left hand still adorned with the ruby ring in his own and massaged his thumb along the inside of my palm. I hesitated. When the silence stretched, he tried again.

“I know you’re scared. But how can I prove myself to you unless you let me?” Tom rationalized, still softly stroking my small hand.

_He did just barge into the bathroom to take care of you…_

“I’ll ask again. Would you like me to back off?”

I gave a small nod _yes,_ feeling somewhat sad at my decision but not quite knowing why.

“Duly noted, my love,” he acquiesced. Pressing a chaste kiss to my forehead, nose, and eyelids, he moved away from me to turn off the bedside lamp, and then settled down to go back to sleep. But he never removed his hand from mine.

 

 

My stomach woke me once more – several hours later – but I no longer fell victim to panic-inducing nausea. Instead, I was _extremely_ hungry. The growl from my abdomen practically echoed through my bedroom…

…a bedroom that was noticeably absent one individual.

Peering at my phone residing on the end table beside my bed, I noted that it was just after 9:00 am, and although I still felt traces of jet lag, my hungry tummy and the bright sunshine filtering through the windows were refusing to let me rest. And, try as I might to ignore how curious I was, I wanted to know where _he_ was.

Stretching for a moment before walking to the bathroom, I took note that the suite was silent as the grave – save for the slight sounds of surf from our veranda. My senses then picked up an additional tidbit: the heady, rich smell of coffee.

Maybe he was just being quiet as I slept?

The prospect of seeing his handsome face, his hair mussed with sleep, made my heart skip erratically as I went through the morning’s motions: contacts in, teeth brushed, searching for one of my brand new swimsuits: a patterned, Volcom one-piece with the fabric in front and back cut in a deep vee. I quickly washed my face, applied some tinted moisturizing sunscreen, and lashed myself with waterproof mascara; just because I would be in the sun and water didn’t mean I was totally letting myself go.

I was slightly ashamed to admit that I wanted him to see me looking beautiful when I made my entrance into the living area – especially since he’d seen me looking “green” last night. Piling my hair atop my head, I moved back across the bedroom to my luggage, pulling out a simple black romper-slash-cover up and stepping into it with ease. I took one last look at my reflection in the bedroom’s oversize wall mirror, and my eye caught on the glinting ruby adorning my ring finger.

Should I take it off? I warred with myself momentarily, knowing the gemstone would get all manner of salty and/or chlorinated water in it, not to mention granules of sand…sunscreen…

_No._

I left it on.

Sauntering excitedly into the living area of the ‘Ahu ‘Ula – especially at the prospect of my first full day in Hawaiian sunshine – I was met with many, many eye-catching things.

Tom was not one of them.

The dining table had been set for two, though, with a linen tablecloth and trays full of food and drink.

Coffee, juices, warm mugs of tea…

Sliced fruits…

Pieces of toast that were still warm, with an array of sweet spreads to put on them…

Tiny pots of fruited oatmeal…some with drizzles of cinnamon and syrup…

And a hastily handwritten note – to me – perched at the edge of the table.

I plucked it up greedily, my eyes raking over the messy, swooping writing I’d come to know so well.

 

 

_**Hello, beautiful.** _

_**Don’t be alarmed…I’m out for a quick run. Didn’t want to wake you as I knew you’d be tired from your unpleasant night.** _

_**Help yourself to breakfast…I ordered some relatively bland, harmless things that shouldn’t upset your stomach. If you’re wary, try some dry toast and a bit of the banana. Apple juice should go down well, too.** _

_**I love you.** _

_**T xo** _

 

 

I had asked him to back off, hadn’t I? And this did appear to be him giving me some space – some time – to myself. But I couldn’t deny the thoughtfulness of his gesture: the sweet note, the carefully chosen breakfast foods that he knew wouldn’t make me ill. And on top of it all, those three words he kept insistently giving me.

_I love you._

The more he said them – or wrote them – the more pleasurable the twist in my belly became. The more my heart seemed to clench with wanting him. And yet I still couldn’t convince my head that he was being transparent with me. That this was what he really wanted, what he could readily commit to. I’d made the right choice in asking him to back off; I couldn’t just switch off from my self-preservation mode. And in thinking about that mode, an unbidden image flashed in my mind of the last time Tom had been seen on a beach with someone.

With Taylor Swift. Playing whatever game they’d been playing – acting loved-up, splashing one another, her trying to jump onto him in a shitty charade of an actual piggyback ride.

The crackle of paper startled me – I looked down to see my right hand unconsciously crushing up Tom’s note to me; with a start, I made to smooth the glossy hotel stationery, shaking my head and trying to focus on where I was now.

Where _we_ were now.

But self-doubt, insidious as it always was with me, crept forward in abundance.

_What had her suit looked like? Oh, yes. The bright red bikini…showing off her ass…ets…the slash of red lipstick…_

Suddenly my swimming attire felt laughably modest. I felt laughably foolish, trying to compare myself to a girl – surely not a woman – younger than myself.

Luke Windsor, by some sort of divine _deus ex machina,_ chose that moment to pop back into my life. I heard the chime of my phone, signaling his presence, from the bedroom and scurried back in to see what new shenanigans the lobsterback had for me. He was in fine form.

 

_**I tried to pack him an I Heart K.M. shirt, but he refused and gave me a nonverbal glance that spelled out ‘I will dismember you of your balls’.** _

 

Blessing the man, I laughed out loud, meandering back to the breakfast that awaited me. My anxiety ebbed for the moment as I replied, my stomach unclenching.

 

_**I bet I could’ve gotten him to wear it, though… :)** _

 

I waited for Luke’s reply by sitting down to the table and pouring myself a small glass of ice-cold apple juice. I’d really wanted the coffee, but I knew that I needed to take it easy on my digestive tract for the day…and I had a niggling feeling that Tom might admonish me for playing with fire. He seemed to have my best interests at heart, at all times, these days.

Luke chimed in once more as I began to peel a banana, carefully tugging away its sunshine-yellow skin to reveal the ripe, fragrant fruit.

 

_**Of course you could have! If you don’t realize by now that the man would do ANYTHING you asked, you are in SERIOUS denial, Yank.** _

 

I blushed at the profound honesty of Luke’s words, at the idea of having so much power over someone so attractive, so successful…so _Tom._ At the realization that – if he was being truthful – Tom had wanted me from the moment we met in a manner so primitive, so _intimate,_ that he was willing to go to any length and wait for any amount of time for me to understand his feelings.

Luke sent another text, bolstering my thoughts.

 

_**That ring you’ve got is a much more striking statement to the world than a shirt will ever be.** _

 

He was right. The thought, strangely, calmed me. I began tapping out another text to Luke, eager to speak with him about things back home, when the door across the room opened.

“There’s my gorgeous girl.”

I looked up in a half-hearted attempt to acknowledge Tom’s return, wanting to finish my communiqué with Luke and trying to be nonchalant, but I ended up doing a double-take and nearly biting my tongue instead of the remains of my bite of banana.

Tom had stripped off his t-shirt – so covered in sweat was he – and was removing his running shoes in the entryway, staring at me in what must have been an endorphin-related high, a huge smile on his face. His hair was practically soaked through, and the bits that had grown out were curling to frame his face: all stubble and perfect jawline. I came back to myself only to realize my mouth was hanging open.

_Shit._

“Are you feeling better, Kate?” Tom asked as he made his way somewhat gingerly over to where I lounged at the table, tossing his shirt onto the chair nearest me and running long fingers through his riot of curled strands.

All I could do was nod as he dropped a kiss to my forehead before swiping up a pitcher of frosty-cold orange juice and pouring himself a hearty glass of the freshly squeezed beverage. He took several long pulls of the liquid, eyes closed, and I could see the muscles of his throat working with each swallow.

_And this would be when you kick your own ass for telling him to back off._

“Enjoy your run?” I practically squeaked, reaching for my phone in an attempt to distract myself from the very sleek, very wet show in front of my eyes. “I’m just chatting a bit with Luke…” I trailed off, trying to avoid Tom’s broad chest and tapered waist.

Luke, asshole that he was, hadn’t responded. I literally had no out.

Steeling myself, I leaned back in my chair and managed the smuggest grin – heart pounding all the while – I possessed. I focused on looking into Tom’s crystalline eyes, anywhere on his face, to avoid the deep vee of his abdominal muscles, the strong flex of his thighs and calves…pretty much the other 99% of him.

“How is our dear Luke J?” Tom inquired after draining his glass. He quirked an eyebrow at me as if to say he knew we’d been talking about him, then winked at me.

I shifted in my chair uncomfortably, replaying the conversation in my head about my ability to get Tom to do anything. And how I wanted him to do everything in that moment.

_Lord._

“He’s well. Just checking in on us,” I answered. Tom grabbed his shirt, giving me contrite eyes as he moved away from the table.

I was suddenly confused. Wasn’t he going to eat with me?

“I’m filthy, darling, forgive me. Let me go rinse off and then I’ll join you, yes?”

The words _filthy_ and _rinse off_ were causing me immediate problems. Did he know what he was doing? Was this to get back at me for telling him to cool down for awhile? I needed to get the upper hand.

“That would be great, Tom. Luke sends his regards…he wishes you would have packed an I Heart K.M. shirt, though…” I said it to his retreating figure – it was a bit cruel – but my stomach dropped just a fraction when he froze mid-step and turned back to me with a leer on his face.

“That’s a low blow, darling,” he purred, moving stealthily toward me in nothing but his black running shorts. Before I knew what to expect he had taken my hair down and tilted my head back to rest on his stomach as he stood behind my chair. I could smell the heat and salt of him, the ripe scent of his flesh, and my eyes closed of their own volition as he began to massage my bare shoulders with firm yet controlled hands. I felt him kneel down behind me; it was followed by his warm breath at my ear.

“I don’t need a piece of clothing for the world to know how utterly obsessed I am with you.”

His thumbs were pressing expertly into the muscles of my neck and shoulders; I had to suppress a groan but kept my eyes closed for fear of what I might see when I looked into his eyes. However, I fought for ground once more.

“So you were obsessed with her too, then?” I murmured.

I was only half joking. As much as it ate at me, I had to admit the whole ordeal with her had made me irreparably jealous – regardless of what it was (or wasn’t).

Tom stopped his ministrations, moving his hands away from me to curl an arm sinuously across my middle, brushing the fingers of his right hand through my hair in a soft, possessive gesture. I found that I couldn’t move. He slowly whispered his answer, holding me still.

“I’d like for you to ask me that question again, at a later time of _your_ choosing, when I’m deep inside of you and you’re trembling around me, both of us breathless with pleasure.”

He punctuated his statement with a firm bite to my left earlobe before sauntering off to the shower, leaving me with a pounding heart and a blossoming ache between my legs.

 

 

Breakfast turned out to be a mild-mannered affair after the heated bit of conversation that preceded it. Tom returned, fresh from his shower, in swim trunks and a plain white shirt, to sit with me at the table and share in our feast. His words had left me feeling shy, a bit embarrassed, and not a little chagrined at my outward display of jealousy at the thought of Little Miss Shake It Off.

“Thank you for ordering for me,” I stated shyly, taking his hand in mine as he sipped coffee from his cup and smiled at me. “I’m feeling much better.”

“I’m glad, darling girl. I think we need to be careful what you eat for the next few days. No alcohol and such, yes?”

I agreed, stirring a spoon into a still-warm pot of peachy oatmeal. “Did you sleep well, other than me being a nuisance?” I pressed, continuing my meal.

Tom _tsk_ ed me immediately for my word choice. “Never a nuisance, Kate. You weren’t well; I was concerned. And now that I know it frightens you to feel sick, I’m glad I was there,” he affirmed. The look he gave me wasn’t quite stern, but it was designed to put me in my place – I felt instinctively that if I ever hesitated to ask for him if something was wrong, he’d be offended or upset with me.

As he diced some fresh fruit and then spread a pat of butter onto some toast, he seemed to regard me with a fresh set of eyes. “I like the little black number, lovely. Is the suit also black?” he asked curiously, his eyes roving over my relaxed form.

The straps of my Volcom were black in places, but everything was pretty much covered. I suddenly had a flash to the red bikini he’d witnessed recently and found myself feeling vulnerable again, to my annoyance.

_Goddamnit, seriously? Why is this such a thing for you all of a sudden?_

“The suit is, um, multicolor,” I began, looking at the spoon I stirred absently in the oatmeal to occupy my fidgeting hands. “But it’s not really that exciting. It’s a one-piece.”

He surprised me with a barely-concealed groan as he closed his eyes. I thought he’d eaten a particularly divine piece of papaya, but I was wrong.

“Oh, sweet. Haven’t you ever heard ‘less is more’ and all that? The less you show, the more I want to see?” he winked.

I feigned a little slap at his arm, giggling in pleasure at his admission. He gave me one of those delicious _“ehehe”_ sounds I loved. “I would expect nothing less from you, Kate. My class act.”

The compliment was something he’d never given me before. It showed a new level of esteem for me, and I appreciated it very much.

“Thank you, Tom,” I smiled. “You about ready to head out? I think I have an appointment with a chaise at the pool and with some reading material in my bag.”

With a nod, his mouth full of toast like a little kid, Tom agreed.

“Oh and by the way,” I reminded, “I am lathering you with sunscreen because you need some protection, young man.”

He gave me a sheepish, adorable look at the comment. “Yes, mum.”

I stood up, feigning an indignant attitude at his comment. “Thomas William! Are you calling me _old?”_

There was much stuttering and trying to back out of the hole he was digging himself into at that point, until I laughingly moved around the table to wrap him in a hug where he sat. He cleared his throat, and I turned my face toward his, only to be caught in a brief, clinging kiss.

“Would it be better if I said you’ll be an excellent mummy, darling?” he breathed.

And there it was again. His fetish – never far from his mind.

It was getting harder for me to ignore.

 

 

_Night Film_ was, most definitely, an engrossing novel – and one I wanted to integrate into another Gothic Literature course the next semester, if David thought it was still a popular enough section to offer to students.

Marisha Pessl was a favorite writer of mine, despite only authoring two novels. But _Night Film_ , with its expanse of horror, gothica, mystery…it was a wonderfully modern twist on the intricacies of dark literature. And yet, as enraptured as I was with the novel (even reading it for a third time), my attention strayed time and time again several times during my afternoon poolside with Tom.

It began when we dropped our things beside luxurious chaise lounges at the Ka Maka Grotto; I was so in love with the ocean view of Ko Olina Beach that I was absently taking off my black romper when I heard a low wolf whistle beside me.

_“God_ but you’re perfect,” Tom murmured.

I stepped out of my cover up and turned to face him, inhaling sharply at the sheer longing on his handsome face. He was literally rooted to the spot, taking in every curve of my flesh. I sat as daintily as I could on the luxe material of the chaise, quirking an eyebrow and adjusting my sunglasses.

“Suit okay?” I smiled, reaching into my bag for my sunscreen and book. I knew it was; I could see him, hard as stone, standing beside me. He blushed at my notice of his arousal, moving to sit next to me. He beckoned with his hand for me to give him the sunscreen.

Leaning forward slightly in my chair, I allowed Tom to begin massaging the sunscreen delicately onto my neck, back, and shoulders as I did my front. Looking up as I did so, I noticed just a few interested onlookers; word had spread that Tom Hiddleston and his “fiancée” were vacationing at _Aulani._

A nervous thrill shot through me at the attention we garnered, but I talked myself through it: _people are here with their families, they’ll probably be respectful…_

It turned out I had nothing to worry about. Tom took care of every intrusion – even though there was only a handful. He was his pleasant, charming self to those who came over to say hello. He agreed to sign things when people asked politely.

But then he did something I didn’t expect.

When conversation ran long, and when one female fan asked for a photograph, Tom politely declined. I eavesdropped in as pleasant a manner as possible whilst reading Pessl.

“It’s truly my pleasure to meet you, darling. But as you can see, I’m on a vacation with my Kate. No photos, if you don’t mind. Okay?” Here he gestured to me and smiled lovingly. I didn’t miss his enunciation of the word _my._ “We’d like our privacy, if that’s all right with you.”

And with a firm handshake and that heart-stopping smile, he ended the will-he-won’t-he dance and the young lady took her leave. I decided I needed to do my part in the dog-and-pony show.

“Thank you,” I called to the woman. I gave what must’ve looked like a relieved smile that she didn’t lose her mind when meeting her Internet boyfriend.

She turned back to me and gave a little wave.

_Well that went okay,_ I thought to myself. And then I realized it had gone okay because Tom has established firm boundaries: something he’d never done in the past. I was suddenly overcome with tenderness for him.

Holding out my hands to him so he came to sit on the edge of my chaise, I leaned forward, proffering a kiss. His murmur of appreciation against my lips made me smile.

“Thank you,” I stately simply, running a hand through his hair.

“Whatever for, lovely?” he asked. He truly had no idea. I was beginning to see hints of the selflessness that barely existed when we began our working relationship so long ago.

“For giving us privacy. For not letting people bother me. For keeping me at ease.”

He kissed my forehead, then my nose, and then my mouth for a fleeting moment. “I’ve got you, remember?” he reminded me. And then he stood up, strolled confidently away, and dove gracefully – because of _course_ he would – into the pool.

As much as I wanted to return to _Night Film_ , I waited for Tom to surface, watching as he broke through the rippling aqua to stand at his full height. He slicked back his hair, wiping his face, and turned to look at me, giving me one of those sweet grins I could never get enough of. He was fidgeting with his hair, and I felt a tiny pang for him; he was so conscious of the receding hairline, and when wet, it was even more pronounced. But I still found him to be the most devastatingly attractive man I’d ever known.

Noticing that he was watching me all stretched out in my Volcom finest, I placed my book in my lap and brought my left hand up to eye-level. Looking at him behind my shades, I smirked as I lightly stroked the ruby gemstone still on my hand.

“Mine, mine, mine,” he sing-songed lowly, so that only I could hear. He playfully flicked a bit of water toward my chair, and I laughed, kicking out at it. My commotion had attracted some attention across the expanse of the pool, and I noticed that some of Tom’s earlier visitors had their phones out, clandestinely trying to take shots of us.

While I was glad he didn’t outright pose for pictures with people, I wasn’t averse to giving the fans – and anyone else – a little show.

This was a business arrangement, after all.

I stood up to stretch beside my chaise, and sauntered slowly toward the pool’s edge, where Tom was perched on elbows watching me. I figured he’d swim laps or burn up his endless, boundless energy by flopping around in the water. But he merely stood in the lapping water, taking me in.

Carefully, I knelt down at the edge onto my knees and leaned forward toward him, offering a more than generous view of my suited-up cleavage. “I do believe we’re getting our picture taken, Mr. Hiddleston,” I drawled as I leaned further down.

He was doing his best to look in my eyes, especially as I’d removed my sunglasses – I didn’t want there to be any mistake about who was behind the shades if the photos hit social media. I also didn’t want him to mistake me for someone else.

“You can look,” I purred. “You’re being such a good boy, Tom.”

He made a tiny whining noise in the back of his throat, and I could practically see the throb of his pulse in his neck. He reached out a tentative hand, and I thought he was going to paw at me in some fit of released aggression and arousal. Instead, he locked eyes with me and brought a large hand to my face, stroking my cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“I love you,” he whispered sweetly, genuinely.

I knew he didn’t expect me to say anything, that he knew I was still uncomfortable with the intensity of his feelings, but I felt badly that I could say nothing in return. Each time he professed his love, I cowered. Every moment with him was an internal fight for me: flirting, drawing away, being forthright, and being afraid. It was exhausting.

And yet, at times like these, it was wonderful.

“Are you going to go back to being gorgeous while you read, or are you going to come get wet with me in here?” he asked playfully.

I stood up to my full height, one hip slightly cocked for the possibility of cameras, and fell back into my playful repertoire.

I should have been more staid, given I’d asked him twelve or so hours ago to back off. But I found that when he backed off, I wanted him more.

“I’m going to go back to reading,” I drawled quietly, “because I’m already wet.”

The innuendo wasn’t lost on him; it never was.

“Sweet little minx,” he growled, diving under the water as I turned my back and returned to the chaise from whence I’d come.

 

 

Our back and forth lasted well into the early evening, through some poolside snacks, and after Tom had spent the better part of his time actually in the pool. I’d made a considerable dent in _Night Film_ , annotating a few things on several pages as excellent starting points for a new lecture I was already forming in my head.

By the time the dinner hour was approaching, we were both ready to head back to the ‘Ahu ‘Ula: for food, and at least for my part, to do something about the unbearable aching between my legs

. I didn’t yet want him to have the renewed satisfaction of knowing how badly my body craved him; it would only make him ignore my earlier request to cool off his intentions toward me.

But as always, he knew. He was frighteningly attuned to me.

Making our way back toward Waianae Tower, he inquired after me as we held hands, looking up at the gently wafting palm trees surrounding us. “You feeling unwell, sweet? You look flushed,” he stated with concern.

I shook it off, knowing I felt fine. I was just...extremely aware of how close he was, how practically naked he was. How I missed his touch and his taste.

“Probably just a bit of sunburn,” I dismissed airily, feigning interest in some flowers along the path we trod.

“Couldn’t be, darling,” Tom disagreed, to my semi-annoyance. “I made sure you were rubbed down with suncream all afternoon.” His hand moved protectively to the small of my back, the heat of his touch easily radiating through the sheer material of my romper.

I bit my lip, stifling a heavy exhalation of breath. My traitorous mind echoed his inflection of the word _rubbed_ over and over, and I had a momentary flashback to the now-infamous (in my mind) weekend at the cottage: Tom touching and stroking and kissing and tasting every part of me he could get his hands on. Had he really been desperately in love with me then? Was he prepared at that time to commit himself fully to me? To us?

Further echoes drizzled themselves into my brain, consisting of Tom’s comments about a pregnancy…about endless lovemaking.

Lovemaking was the last thing on my mind by the time I found myself ushered into the cool, air-conditioned space of our suite. I was engaged in a lurid sex fantasy in my imagination, starring the six-foot-two man gazing at me with concern all over his face. I had to brace myself against the heavy wooden dining table as soon as I dropped my things, totally spacing out with thoughts of _that_ mouth.

Those hands.

The way he’d always wrapped me around him so he could find purchase within me as deeply as possible.

I hadn’t realized I’d completely zoned out until I found Tom right in front of me, his body so close I felt my own pressing harder against the edge of the table.

“Look at me,” he requested hoarsely.

I did; one look at his eyes, then his lips, and then back to his eyes ratcheted my pulse. I could feel rich, red blood throbbing in my veins. I breathed in slowly as Tom took the delicate straps of my romper in his hands, peeling them from my shoulders and searching my face for permission all the while.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed, “and I will.”

I said nothing, shrugging my shoulders out of the garment and letting him tug it past my hips with his strong yet gentle hands. My eyes remained locked with his, and he surely witnessed the evidence of what was thrumming through me.

“Your irises are nearly black, your pupils are so dilated,” he commented in what sounded like amazement. “Do I really affect you this much? Even though you told me to take a step back?”

He sounded unsure…nervous. In the back of my mind I registered that I liked his loss of bravado around me. I wanted him to be himself. Maybe I could trust this _real_ Tom.

All I could do was nod, my hands going around his shoulders as I licked my lips, waiting to see what he would do.

“Tell me this is a mistake,” he whispered, lifting me gently onto the dining table and depositing me with a care that belied the fire in his eyes. “Tell me I can’t do this and I need to step back.”

I again said nothing, my hands finding purchase in Tom’s hair as he gently peeled down the straps of my bathing suit, pressing kisses to the side of my neck as he revealed my breasts. It was all I could do to breathe.

He didn’t attack me like the days of old; he didn’t do anything without permission. There were no demands. He seemed hesitant, almost afraid that one wrong touch would shatter me into a thousand icy shards.

That would have been impossible; my entire body burned with a heat only ever reserved for him.

Tom ran reverent fingertips along the contour of my collarbones before brushing them down my chest to gently touch my nipples, now straining toward his warmth in the cool air of the suite. When he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to each rosy little tip, I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

“Tom,” I breathed, holding him to my chest in pleasure and something akin to relief. His name on my lips startled him and he stood up, looking at me with fear in his eyes. He was about to apologize – I could see it in his features – but I stopped him with a small, soft word.

_“More.”_

Swallowing thickly, Tom groaned and pressed his forehead to mine. “Tell me, Kate…you need to tell me to stop…” He sounded as though he were in pain.

I shook my head no and uttered the word again.

_“More.”_

Taking his hand in my own – the hand bedecked with the engagement ring – I moved his lithe fingers to the fabric covering my moist heat, leaning back and spreading open atop the table, my right hand propping me upright.

“Oh _god_ what if I can’t stop…I don’t _ever_ want to stop with you,” Tom rambled in a passionate frenzy, his fingertips frozen between my thighs. His other hand, much like mine, was braced on the table.

Removing my hand from his own, I grasped the material of the bathing suit and pulled it aside, revealing the wet, swollen flesh of my sex.

It was like a bomb suddenly went off.

Tearing his hand away from me, Tom lifted me bodily off the table with one arm as his free hand yanked the suit off the lower half of my body – baring me completely to him before placing me back on the table. He tossed the offending garment to the floor as though it had done him a personal wrong.

I sat back, legs spread, without even being told, sure that I would die if he didn’t touch me soon. It turned out he couldn’t wait any longer than I could, and although the first touch of his fingers against my clit was gentle, I felt as though I’d been shocked: my nerve endings were aflame, simultaneously sighing in relief and screaming in need.

“You’re so wet…oh _god,”_ he groaned, using his free hand on my back to leverage a bit of control in the situation. His eyes sought mine – and I realized he wasn’t trying to suffocate me with kisses or do anything that might impede me from telling him to cease and desist.

My hips were already rolling, my legs beginning to tremble from the onslaught I knew was right around the corner. “This isn’t going to take long,” I ground out through clenched teeth, staring deeply into his eyes. “Fucking _god…”_

I could feel the coil tightening more and more, my body chasing a blessed release that I needed quite badly. And all I could do was hold on to him, gazing helplessly at that handsome face. One hand had found its way into his hair, and the other was locked possessively around his neck.

No filthy words were exchanged; this was nothing like our previous coupling. If I thought I’d felt need of him before…that was _nothing._

It may have been the orgasm talking, but as I felt those delicious contractions beginning deep in my pussy – contractions that he would prolong by gently stroking my clit until I almost cried with the pleasure of it – I managed one unforgettable phrase against his mouth.

“I’m going to…need this… _ooh_ …every…day…from…you.”

He gave a surprised, half laugh-half sob and kissed me, still tracing soft circles against me.

“Do you mean,” he swallowed, still touching me, “every day…here in Hawaii?”

I finally had to move away from him, the stimulation was too great. Grasping his hand and collapsing forward against his chest, I answered.

I wanted to say _no, not just here. Every day until I’m no longer alive_. But I couldn’t go there; I couldn’t subject myself to the hurt that would surely follow once Tom realized he didn’t want to stay with me.

So I simply said, _“Yes.”_


	13. So Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rollercoaster of emotion does not end with Kate...Tom just expresses his in a different way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies...I know it's been several months. But I'm back. And oh, dear....Tom and Kate have not behaved well for me. These two...
> 
> Please note there is *heavy* smut in this chapter and some dub-con/non-con toward the middle/end of the chapter. 
> 
> Talk to me. I've missed you!
> 
> As always, chapter updates are accompanied with some visuals on Pinterest. Locate my latest for this fic here: https://www.pinterest.com/lalumierefics/bad-blood/
> 
> xoxo

My sated, endorphin-flushed body may have been relaxed in those seconds after climax – the first I’d had in quite some time – but my brain immediately went into overdrive as soon as the pleasurable haze lifted.

_Oh, fuck. What did you do?_

_Cover yourself up! Put your goddamn clothes on!_

Tom, still hovering over me, must have felt my body stiffen in his hold, for I heard his intake of breath and felt the loosening of his grip.

“Kate…” he stepped back, fear choking his voice.

As if he could read my mind, he stooped to the floor to retrieve my cover-up, thrusting it quickly into my hands. I couldn’t look at him. The hot flush careening all over my body was surely sign enough of what was going through my head; I felt the sting of salty tears beginning to well in my eyes.

_How could you just give it up to him so easily? FUCK._

Putting on the romper was taking too much time, so I settled embarrassedly for holding it up to my chest and between my legs, moving sideways away from the dining table and out of Tom’s grasp. I could only look at the floor. Just hearing the contrite tone in his voice…

_If you look at him you’re going to lose it. You’re pathetic. Get OUT of here!_

“My love…” Tom began again, “I asked you to tell me to stop…”

I tried to fight it; I tried to avoid that azure gaze as I fled to my corner of the suite, my face and body burning with shame.

I couldn’t do it. I turned to look at him.

He was leaning against the table in what appeared to be a casual stance, but I knew from the lines on his forehead and the cross of his arms that he was worried, stressed. The fingers of his right hand were pressed against his lips…

_Oh god._

And then I could see it – see the war he was fighting with his less-than-gentlemanly self: those fingers that had just been touching me, rubbing me, stroking me to a delicious finish that I’d denied myself for far too long…were slowly working their way _into his mouth_.

The last image burned into my brain before I slammed the door of my bedroom was Tom, eyes closed, one hand braced behind him, as he tasted the remnants of me on his fingers.

 

 

I scrubbed my hair viciously, silently berating myself as thick, soapy strands tangled themselves between my fingers.

 _You couldn’t wait a few days for him to touch you, much less a month. You sick fuck._ _How easy does he think you are NOW, Kate? Jesus._

This was what I hadn’t missed, again: the confusion. The constantly changing ebb and flow of my feelings about him. The guilt. The mistrust. The sickening longing.

And I’d let it happen. I’d invited it.

He’d _tried_ to put me off with each glimpse of skin I’d offered.

 _All you could fucking say was ‘more’_ , I spat at myself, scrubbing my overheated skin as harshly as I could. I reached down to clean efficiently between my legs, but at the first touch of my fingertips against the swollen flesh there, I gasped involuntarily. I was soaked; tremors flitted through my legs at the little bursts of pleasure, and I couldn’t manage to stop from circling my clit ever so slowly, my head hitting the tile of the shower wall behind me as I grit my teeth anew.

God, he’d felt so good. Those hands…I’d forgotten how delicious those hands were. It had taken him mere moments to bring me release. The proximity, coupled with that gorgeous face – I’d never _not_ thought him handsome – and his endless heated pronouncements on this trip had sent me to an unavoidably quick end.

I was about to have another.

Sinking down to the floor of the shower, I stifled a sob as I worked my slick fingers against my clit, bringing my left hand to my mouth to encourage a silence I almost couldn’t maintain. My lips came to press themselves against the engorged ruby on my ring finger – why hadn’t I taken it off?! – and my tongue darted out to stroke the gem in an obscene pantomime of what I wanted to do to Tom’s…

_Oh god._

Flashes of our time in the Cotswolds burst behind my eyelids.

 

_“Does my cock feel good rubbing you inside, baby?”_

_“…my sweet girl…yes, baby…rock your hips…”_

_“You’re going to make me come, Kate…”_

 

Every remembrance of his mouth on my body, every replayed stroke of his shaft inside of me – all of it brought me crashing down headlong into an even more intense orgasm than the one I’d just experienced on the dining room table. I was panting and hissing, shaking on the shower floor, praying he couldn’t hear what he was putting me through.

Spent, I collapsed under the steamy spray of the shower, sprawled out in a most unladylike manner on the wet tile. I’d had a happy, welcomed orgasm with Tom not ten minutes ago; in the space of another ten minutes I’d gotten angry – at myself or with him, I wasn’t totally sure – and had an even _harder_ one.

 _There is no fucking way you’re over this…this…THING you feel for him. You’re too emotional,_ I berated myself, exhausted and disgusted. _Why you ever thought taking a vacation to one of the most romantic spots in the world with him was a good idea…fuck._

Sitting up, I resolved to finish my shower and try to get my mind (and body) to relax.

I was going to _Laniwai Spa_.

Alone.

 

 

I was expecting a contrite, worried Tom to greet me when I made my re-entrance into the living area, my hair and makeup freshly done and a tiny white lace romper wrapped around my slightly suntanned flesh.

That Tom had left the building.

Instead, an also-showered Tom sprawled elegantly on one of the couches, white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and tailored navy blue dress pants encasing those infuriatingly long legs of his. His face was positively thunderous. And he was doing work on his laptop, judging by the sharp _clack clack_ sound of the keys that usually signaled rapid-fire emails regarding schedules, interview arrangements, and bookings.

I wasn’t quite… _afraid_ of him, per se, but the righteous indignation I’d mustered as I got ready for an impromptu spa appointment (how dare he make me want him and how dare he not stop when I begged him to continue!) died in my belly when he looked up from his MacBook.

“Don’t you look _lovely,_ darling,” he uttered in a dangerously low register. His eyes swept over me from head to toe. I shivered in pleasure and something…akin to fear, again. He seemed closed off somehow, cold.

I steeled myself. I needed some time alone to gather my thoughts. “I’m headed over to _Laniwai_ for a full…massage,” I announced, my voice cracking slightly at the end. I winced at how unsure I sounded.

Tom returned his full attention to his work, nodding at my plans. He began tapping on the keyboard again as he replied.

“I’m going to assume you’d like for me to stay away, considering what’s just happened. Am I correct?”

There wasn’t a sneer on his face, but I could feel a palpable sense of annoyance and…lust?

I didn’t agree with his assessment, merely plowing through our dialogue to try and escape the awkwardness of the situation. His state of dress, the clench of his jaw, and the masculine hardness of his features made the room seem too close, too warm. I swallowed thickly.

“I’ll be back within the hour. I don’t feel like attending dinner out tonight to play court for the admiring public, so –”

He cut me off. “I’ll be ordering in for us, then. How do you want it?”

_For us…? How do I want it?_

My fucking traitorous brain shorted. _I want it six ways to Sunday…_

“Your steak, Kate,” Tom growled, slapping the shell of his laptop closed. “I’ll have dinner waiting when you return.”

He moved from the couch, walking over to the veranda doors to stare out at a half sunlit, half stormy sky.

Oh.

“Um,” I was practically stuttering. “Medium well, please. Anything else you see fit to order will be fine,” I murmured, moving swiftly to the door to grab my bag and hightail it out of the suite.

He turned to look at me, gaze burning, before I could wrench open the door and bolt. “Enjoy your massage, then. Glad you didn’t bite that ruby in two.”

 

 

To my credit, I kept my cool throughout the check-in, disrobing, and beginning of the _“lomilomi”_ massage process.

But once the masseuse, a charming older woman named Aineki, began her work, I let the anxiety wash over me in enormous, terrifying waves.

He’d _seen_ me in the shower.

He’d _watched_ me climax – _again._

Tom had come silently into my bathroom and had seen my aroused meltdown (whether he meant to or not was a moot point), witnessed the vivid flashbacks running through my head as I furiously stroked myself to an unbelievably satisfying second orgasm, and catalogued my tongue flicking and teeth biting the engagement ring that had somehow stayed nestled on my hand the entire time.

Sprawled on the shower floor like a spent whore.

_Goddammit._

There was no possible way to hide my feelings now. He _had_ to know. I could no longer tiptoe around the fact that I was helplessly obsessed: physically, emotionally, mentally. He’d read my fury at myself in the living room as anger at _him._ And how could it be? He hadn’t done anything wrong! He’d made sure – been solicitous, for fuck’s sake.

“Relax, Ms. Michael,” whispered Aineki as she smoothed strong fingers along my neck and spine. “You have so much stress in your muscles. Let’s get that out.”

I took the masseuse’s advice and drew in a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before slowly blowing it out, letting my eyes close. Unfortunately there was no respite from my overactive mind. Snippet after snippet replayed itself in my mind: every minute of the Cotswolds, our first encounter in his kitchen, me boasting about drowning him after _Turandot…_

Had he done all of those same things with _her?_ Held her close as he fucked her? Told her he loved her?

A hot wave of nausea rose in my belly; I tried to divert my mind to other things, but my sick brain threw those Rhode Island beach images at me.

Kissing.

Holding hands.

With his _mother._

I became less and less sure of what was real and what was contrived between them.

Hadn’t Luke explained everything? Hadn’t I believed him? Hadn’t I trusted Tom? What if he loved her?

_What if he’s just using me…?_

I clenched my left fist surreptitiously underneath the massage table, willing myself to calm down.

_This is a business arrangement, Kate. You AGREED to this knowing what it was. EXACTLY what it was._

It certainly didn’t seem like a business arrangement to Tom: giving me the best of everything and goading me with his constant talk of pregnancy and love and being together. Caring for me when I was sick, and scared… Was I really so willing to sabotage something that could actually work? And why was he so angry when I left the ‘Ahu ‘Ula?

The answers were so clear and immediate that they stung a bit.

_Because you keep making him feel like shit for having feelings for you. For scurrying off after you begged him to continue._

Could we really do this? Have a relationship? A marriage? A child? I shivered. The temperature of the  _Laniwai_ massage room seemed to suddenly dip a bit, and I felt Aineki stiffen slightly. Someone had entered the room.

“Sir, this room is for paying spa participants only,” she explained politely.

_Oh fuck. Seriously?!_

“I do apologize, madam, but my fiancée is on your table and we weren’t able to get a couples reservation, so I told her I’d come down and sit with her during her _lomilomi.”_

That infamous charm worked effortlessly on the masseuse, who soon recognized Tom. “Of course, Mr. Hiddleston. You’re welcome to pull up one of the chaises over there,” Aineki motioned with one hand to the seating accoutrements against the far wall.

I tried to remain calm, to keep my eyes closed. But I couldn’t help looking up and craning my neck around to see Tom making his way toward the massage table. When he reached out a long fingertip to trace the inside of my left leg from ankle to thigh, I bit my lip to keep from yelping.

“Isn’t she gorgeous, Aineki?” he enquired to the spa employee, who was now pleased as punch to have a celebrity in her midst. She began working on my lower half, shielded though I was by a fluffy _Aulani_ towel.

“Yes, Mr. Hiddleston.” I heard the smile in her voice. The woman had no earthly idea what had just transpired between us in our suite.

“Darling I’m _so_ sorry we couldn’t get a reservation together,” Tom crooned, perching beside the table so I could see him clearly from where my head rested comfortably. He reached for my hand, quirking an eyebrow, and I knew that meant we were putting on a show for the older woman in the room with us. I took his hand languidly – somewhat relaxed, surprisingly, from Aineki’s ministrations – and tried to respond in as loving a manner as possible.

“Baby, it’s okay,” I squeezed his hand, unsure as to why. Was I apologizing? Why did he come all the way over here?

“My sweet one has so much pressure on her, ma’am,” Tom spoke to Aineki as she continued down my calves. “An engagement is supposed to be a thrilling, _pleasurable_ time…but we’re so preoccupied with all of our arrangements.”

I pressed my thighs together at his use of _“pleasurable.”_

“I’m sure it will all be worth it in the end, Miss Michael,” Aineki patted my left leg. “Now if you two will shush, I’m going to finish with our young woman, here.”

I thanked the older woman silently for telling us to cease the talking, since it afforded me some time to try and analyze the situation at hand. I blew out a relaxed breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding as she continued her work on my legs, ankles, and feet. To my surprise, Tom scooted closer to me and softly brushed some loose strands of hair behind my ear, tracing the shell of my left lobe with gentle fingers.

Giving in to the undeniable fact that my body always responded to him, I leaned in just a tiny fraction to the touch, a small smile gracing my lips. His continued touches and holding of my hand made me feel, instinctively, that he was no longer upset with me. Whatever had transpired in the suite was forgotten.

I hoped.

Or maybe this was all for show and he’d go right back to being his surly, growling self when we dined in for dinner. That thought quickened my pulse in the worst kind of way. And Tom, damn him, could read me perfectly.

Nestling his mouth against the shell of my ear, he began placing tiny kisses along my skin. My grip on his free hand tightened when he did so. He retaliated by moving his lips to the sensitive patch of velvety skin underneath my ear, along my neck. I tried not to lose my mind to the sensuality of the moment – what must we look like to Aineki? – and occupied myself best I could by counting each touch of Tom’s mouth to my skin.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

I felt his tongue dart out to swipe lightly against the fragrant flesh of my neck.

_F-five._

_Six._

He worked his mouth back toward my ear.

_Seven._

_Eight._

“I saw you in the shower,” he growled quietly into my ear. “I know that was because of _me.”_

I prayed the masseuse couldn’t feel the muscles of my upper thighs clenching together. Heat was coursing through me at an alarming rate.

“You can play this off any way you like…run away from me again…tell yourself you don’t want this,” he purred, now tracing fingers down my bare arm in time with his whispering. “But I saw you. I know only I can cause you to lose your mind. Just the same as you cause me to lose _mine…”_

“All done, Miss Michael,” Aineki announced rather loudly, patting my right leg softly. “Will you be needing anything else this evening?”

I dragged myself out of the muddled state of arousal I’d found myself in – again – and thanked the masseuse for her wonderful work.

“You’re very welcome, _hoaloha,”_ she smiled. “I’ll leave you to get dressed. Enjoy the rest of your stay at _Aulani,_ Miss Michael, Mr. Hiddleston. And a blessed engagement and wedding to you! _Mahalo!”_

“Bless you for taking care of my darling girl, Aineki,” Tom responded, giving the older woman a heartfelt wave as she exited the room.

I sat up, wrapping the towel around myself self-consciously as the door closed. Being alone with Tom again, even after an hour of trying to relax myself, was ratcheting my blood pressure to unhealthy levels. My undergarments and white romper were draped on a chaise clear across the room.

“Turn around, please,” I tried to state in a commanding voice.

Tom ignored me, stepping to the side to retrieve my clothing and returning to stand, imperiously, in front of me. It suddenly enraged me – this glimpse of the arrogant lothario whom I had thought was redeemable.

“You don’t get to be upset with me, Kate,” he spoke calmly, handing me my clothing. “You allowed me to give you pleasure and I did nothing you didn’t ask for. Am I correct?”

I hissed an irritated yes at him, dropping the _Aulani_ towel in the process. His eyes widened, yet he continued.

“My arrogance is masking a lot of things right now,” he cleared his throat, looking away as I dressed myself as quickly as possible. “But I went to your room to apologize and see if you were okay. I didn’t mean to see…”

 _“What,_ exactly?” I bristled. “What didn’t you mean to see when you barged in on me in a very private moment? I could have been thinking of a thousand different things with my hand between my legs, Thomas! How _dare_ you!”

The palpable bravado drained from his face; he whitened, eyes watching as I pulled the delicate straps of the romper onto my shoulders.

“Oh.”

I’d meant to wound him and it worked like a charm. I could see his sense of self deflating before my eyes, and gave myself a point for an invisible victory. He had no idea of the game I was playing, of the score I kept.

_Love doesn’t keep score, you bitch._

_This isn’t love!_

Tom was about to say something else, but closed his mouth and spun on his heel, making for the door. He stopped at the threshold, waiting for me to gather my other items.

“Dinner should be arriving soon. We’d best head back to the suite,” he spoke quietly.

I’d expected him, gentleman as he was, to hold the door for me and let me through first. But he simply stepped out of the massage room, and seeing me following, began walking ahead by several steps.

 

 

The satisfaction I’d felt at cutting into his ego dissipated with each step I took back to the ‘Ahu ‘Ula. In fact, I felt downright awful by the time we set foot back in the foyer of the suite.

Was it possible I’d miscalculated? Were we both hiding behind massive amounts of emotion for one another?

I took a deep breath, gently toeing off my shoes as I followed Tom into the living area, where a gorgeous candlelit steak dinner awaited us. I couldn’t focus on it; I was too busy trying to approach what had happened between us as logically as I could.

_He’s been nothing but chivalrous and good to you. You bitched about the earrings, you bitched about him getting too close, you bitched to YOURSELF about your little encounter… He’s done NOTHING wrong. Look at what he fucking arranged for you this evening! Jesus, Kate._

“I thought this would be nice for us tonight,” his deep tone wafted toward me from across the room. “Bringing some ambience from the restaurants below us. I’m going to change clothes.”

He barely looked at me, simply acknowledging the spread before us as he exited to his side of the suite, unbuttoning that infernal white dress shirt as he went. The timbre of his voice, seductive though it always was, bordered on indifferent.

This hurt me.

I shook my hurt away with a toss of my head, inclined to go to my room and change clothes also – I wanted to be more comfortable and more covered for dinner than I currently was. “Covered” wasn’t something that would happen, though, because I hadn’t actually packed much in the way of comfortable, demure, innocent clothing. Where had my mind been when preparing for this trip?

_Probably thinking about fucking him while pretending you’d never want him again. Business arrangement my ass._

The best I could do was a regrettably colored La Perla Maison three-quarter robe in emerald green. Lacy edges and a buttery satin finish couldn’t disguise the fact it was Loki’s favorite color.

_Goddammit._

My stomach was too hungry to allow me to care about the wardrobe decision, however, and I finished tying the belt around my waist quickly so I could dig into what I hoped would be a very succulent steak.

Tom was already seated at the table, pouring some rich, red wine for the both of us. I noticed his hands clench momentarily at the first sight of me in the vivid, gemstone green his most famous character favored. He said nothing, nostrils flaring, as he finished pouring the wine. He then snapped his cloth napkin abruptly into his lap.

“I feel a bit overdressed,” I stated awkwardly, noticing the plain white shirt and sleep pants he wore to dinner. “It was the first suitable thing I grabbed from my suitcase.”

Tom began cutting sharply into his steak. He didn’t look up. I took a few careful bites of the feast laid out in front of me, relishing the perfectly-prepared meat, potatoes, and assorted vegetables. From time to time I sipped the heady sauvignon, rolling its richness around in my mouth to cleanse my palate.

“Do you insist upon making my life a _living hell?”_ Tom queried suddenly. His voice was a mixture of sadness, frustration, and annoyance. Placing his fork on the edge of his plate, he folded his hands together to stare at me pointedly.

I sputtered. “Excuse me?!”

“This hot and cold business of yours is wearing on my last nerve, Kate,” he elaborated. I could see his jaw clenching clear across the expanse of the table.

As ever, I went from 0-100 with Tom Hiddleston. Tossing my napkin to the floor, I mustered immediate self-righteousness.

“What the ever-living _fuck_ are you talking about, Tom?” I spat. Shoving myself back from the table, I crossed my arms in a defensive gesture. I felt as though I needed protecting.

He surprised me by whipping his half-full wine glass onto the floor quite forcefully, smashing the glass and lifting heated eyes to mine.

“I’ve bent over _backwards_ to make this trip perfect for you,” he sneered, “and all I get from you is either false hope or hurtful words.” He grabbed the cabernet bottle, taking an obscenely long drag from the neck, before doing much the same as he’d done with his glass: thrashing it onto the ground in an explosion of blood-red glass.

I watched, incredulously, as wine stained the vicinity all around his chair. A few droplets had splashed onto his t-shirt, dotting the fabric like blood.

“You don’t want the earrings. You _loved_ first class. You need me to _back off._ You want _more._ You _flirt;_ you _accuse.”_

I felt my heart sinking in my chest, a thrill of fear churning my stomach. _Say something in your defense! Don’t let him get to you like this!_

I swallowed, reaching for my own glass as though I was afraid he’d snatch it and break it, too. I took a sip, my anger mounting at his sudden outburst. “Are you done with your tantrum?” I taunted. “Actors will be actors, and all…”

He gave a sickening little laugh, astonished at what I’d just said.

“And here I am trying to prove myself to you, Kate. Flaying myself wide open so you know how much I want you and _…love_ you,” he bit out.

Irrationality was apparently contagious. I grabbed my glass and flung it at the floor, too.

“This is a business arrangement, remember?” I seethed. “I’m bailing your ass out of the mess you made of your career. Don’t sit there and get cocky like you’ve given me the world on a string, Sinatra!”

“Oh but you’d _love_ for me to try, right darling?” he countered. He was pacing at his side of the table. “So that you can always throw it back in my face? Is that right? Leave me high and dry like last time?”

“Did you not hear what I said, Thomas? This is a _public relations vacation._ The cameras aren’t here with us right now, Tom! You don’t have to whore me out on some fucking rocks or at a giant pool party! You can quit playing me to your end because it’s really fucking clear that –” I choked on my words, but attempted to ground them out. I needed to get them out.

“What?” Tom was almost in a rage, waiting for me to finish. His hands clenched the lip of the dining table, knuckles white. Everything came out in am embarrassing rush.

“It’s really fucking clear that you’re going to hurt me and leave me and I’m basically the easiest way for you to get back in the public’s good graces.”

I hadn’t even realized I’d started to cry.

“You’re an actor. It’s what you people do. I can’t…” I hiccupped softly, inelegantly. “ _I’m_ _not…her.”_

The admission burned on my skin, all of the insecurity of the last year flooding through my pores. I’d basically admitted – without saying so – that I was insanely jealous and hopelessly untrusting in the face of his affection, his love. _Or whatever he thinks this is_ , I thought defeatedly.

Looking away, I swiped at a few stray tears and my gaze caught at the swirling mess of wine we’d made on the floor. I was too drained to clean up after our demonstration, so I merely picked my feet up and hugged my knees to my chest where I sat. It was quiet but for the tiny chime of Tom’s cell on the coffee table.

He ignored whatever incoming distraction was happening.

I began a reverie in my head of packing my things neatly in my suitcase and planning an itinerary back to the UK.

 _God,_ I thought, _the press will be unbearable now._

“You’re fucking _right_ you’re not her,” Tom suddenly snarled. “You’re not _her_ and you’re not any of the other nameless, faceless, women I’ve been so easily able to forget about.”

My pulse leapt into my throat and I looked up, snapping out of my daydream as Tom moved his dishware to the side, splaying his hands out in front of him.

“If you can’t see that you’re the fucking _prize_ that I aspire to win every fucking _day_ then you are blind,” he continued, moving more of the dishes to the far side of the table. “This isn’t about me lying or trying purposely to overwhelm you, so you can cut that shit out right now about me being an actor. I would hope you could at least give me the fucking _courtesy_ to see how good I’ve been to you since we began talking again. The therapy. The honesty. The trust exercises. _Protecting you.”_

My mouth was slack as I listened; I watched as he carefully continued to place tureens and platters of our dinner to the side.

He was clearing the table.

“I know you don’t like all the flashy gestures or talking about love or my arrogance in your face but you will never fool me into believing that second, more delicious orgasm you had was because of _anyone_ but me.”

I was mesmerized. Panicked, but mesmerized. He licked his thumb and forefinger to extinguish the two burning candles in the middle of the table. I winced on his behalf at the heat he must’ve felt from the flaming wicks.

Somehow, I found my voice, small though it was. “I don’t –”

He was towering over my seated form in a split second, hands on the armrests of my chair. His heady scent enveloped me immediately from where I sat.

“I’m sorry?” he parried, shoving his face closer to mine. Without looking, he grasped my left hand and wrapped his fingers around my engagement ring. “You don’t what?”

Tom’s stare was so intense, so masterful that I felt myself weakening. Vainly, I tried again.

“I d-don’t…trust you,” I stuttered, coloring as I watched his tongue swipe aggressively across his lower lip. I could practically smell the wine on his mouth.

The small, quiet admission out of my own mouth was in very stark contrast to what happened next. I found myself hauled bodily atop the dining table, now cleared of our dinner, as Tom wrenched the green satin from my body. He was out of his shirt and shucking his bottoms before I could find the nerve to squirm away.

A tiny whine escaped from the back of my throat.

Placing himself squarely between my dangling legs, Tom braced his large hands on either side of my head as he bent down to trail his mouth from my navel all the way up to my throat, humming lowly as he went before startling me.

_“Stop it.”_

The command froze my hands in their position – I’d been reaching up, unsure as to whether to push him away or pull him closer.

“I don’t touch _you,_ so you don’t touch _me,”_ he announced brusquely.

 _Apparently this doesn’t extend to his mouth_.

“You don’t trust me, darling? Is that it?” he spat, before gently biting the flesh of my left breast. “Don’t trust me to leave marks on you?” He suckled at the skin of my neck. I was scrabbling with my nails along the edge of the table, trying not to touch him. “Don’t trust me to keep my head clear and my heart out of this ‘business arrangement’, as you keep reminding me to call it?”

I yelped as he reached down and tore my underwear from my hips, leaving a stinging burn where the fabric briefly pressed into my skin.

“Oh god… _Tom_ …” I cried, frightened and not a little aroused. My hands shook; I balled them into fists in my hair. Unsatisfied with this location, I began tearing at my bra, wanting the damned thing off.

His hands kept to the weird agreement – no touching – but his mouth didn’t. The first savage lick of his tongue around my clit had me arching upward, thighs tense and tummy quivering. I lifted my head from the table to gaze between my legs, flashing back to the sensuality of our time alone in the cottage.

This time was different.

Tom fucked me aggressively with his mouth, my juice smearing all over his chin and lips, his eyes closed as though he were in immense pain. The noises coming from his throat told an entirely different story. Unbridled lust. I snapped – reaching for him in any way possible. To haul him closer, to hold his mouth to my slickening pussy, I didn’t know what I wanted. I just knew he made me feel the most intense, gorgeous pleasure and I needed more. At the first touch of my hands on his skin, he yanked back and away from me, flushed and angry.

“I _said_ no touching,” he bit out, grabbing aggressively for his cock. I could see a stream of glistening precum at the head, and watched rapt as he began furiously fisting his shaft whilst glaring at me, my legs wide and my whole body shaking. “You want this to be impersonal? Just business?”

His eyes closed for a moment during a particularly satisfying pass of his fist around the head of his cock. He bit his lip and I groaned. Loudly.

“I…” I started again, reaching down automatically to stroke my aching pearl, but he slapped my hand away. It wasn’t violent, but it was totally out of character for Tom. My eyes wide, I watched as he yanked his fist away from his cock, turning fully to face me, before crashing overtop me and sinking himself deep into my womb in one fateful stroke.

 _“FUCK!”_ I screamed fit to bring the house down, grabbing onto the table.

Tom didn’t waste any time, hammering his hips into mine in a backbreaking rhythm. His size, combined with the fact that I hadn’t been with anyone since him, caused a considerable burn within me.

“I’m still not touching you. I’m _fucking_ you, yes, since that’s the impersonal touch you apparently crave from me,” he sneered. He rolled his hips sensuously, grinding the light spray of pubic hair at the base of his cock into my soaked clit. I bucked up against him involuntarily. He slammed two fists beside my head onto the table to provide leverage for his thrusts.

“Please… _please_ ,” I begged, though I knew not what for. I couldn’t touch him or he’d stop. But part of me wanted him to stop.

We were unprotected.

“Please what?” he whispered, close to my face. His tongue darted out to trace my lips, cock pistoning in and out of me at an unbelievable pace. “Please stop? Please don’t stop? Please get me pregnant? Please pull out? Please rub my clit so I can come?”

I felt his hips stutter as I clenched around him; the diatribe was cranking the pleasure sky-high for me. He was unrelenting, a tear cascading down his cheek, as he began long, slow, unbearably deep strokes.

“Please don’t shower me with nice gifts? Please give me more? Please leave me alone?”

I was sobbing with need, upset at this exceedingly aggressive side of Tom, gritting my teeth trying not to touch him. Any sense of pride or anger had abandoned me in favor of unbearable pleasure.

“T-touch me _please,”_ I cried. I was desperate and suddenly had my hands in his hair, yanking him toward me, as though I could persuade him more easily that way.

He didn’t even try to argue. One hand slid under my back to cradle my head as his dominant hand found my tiny, swollen jewel. He began rubbing at me with insanely fast, yet gentle strokes.

“Like this?” he panted. “Are you going to come like this, Kate? You’d better not, darling,” he groaned, my walls fluttering repeatedly. “If you come I’m going to spill inside of you…”

I pulled his face to my own, panting, licking his lips and pressing kiss after kiss to him. _“Ngh…faster!”_

“How much do you hate me now?” Tom hissed, pressing unforgiving circles against my little pearl and fucking me deeply, using a free hand to wrap my right leg tighter around his hip. “How much do you want me to _back off?”_

My breath huffed out of me with each inward stroke of his cock, my eyes closing at the unbearable satisfaction between my thighs. All I could do was grasp at his muscled shoulders, his smooth back, his delicious ass flexing as he fucked me. I could feel a wail building in my throat, but Tom suddenly pulled out of me and shoved me, none too delicately, further up the table.

I scrambled to sit up, confused and throbbing, watching him climb atop the table. He was crawling toward me on all fours, his angry erection purplish-red and wet.

“I’ve had _enough_ of your rudeness,” he whispered hoarsely, eyes watering.

And then in one graceful movement, he reached forward to slap my thighs open before bending down to bite my clit.

Hard.

I was stuttering, trembling into his mouth, as he did nothing but clamp his teeth down on me, my body flinging itself into a series of violent contractions that caused my vision to tunnel. I tried to pull back slightly from the sensation but I was caught in his mouth. He was an animal, and I was the prey.

Keening, I sobbed in anguish at the pain and relief of the orgasm – my third of the evening – before opening my eyes when the sensation suddenly ceased.

Tom was on his back, his short, neatly manicured fingernails digging into the mahogany of the table, as his back bowed off the surface. He grit his teeth as thick, creamy spurts of semen oozed onto his stomach, pooling into his bellybutton and the divots of his hips. Another strong contraction seized deeply in my womb as I watched him working through his own end, his hips pushing helplessly into the air.

He startled when his phone began chiming again; I’d long forgotten that it had gone off earlier, and he suddenly sat up, staring at me with aroused irritation all over his face.

Swiping a large hand over the mess on his abdomen, he lunged back toward me where I lolled, spread-eagle, on the table, and wiped a possessive handful of cum slowly down my stomach all the way to my pubic bone. His eyes never left my belly.

“Be a _doll,_ my love, and get my mobile, would you?”

The sentiment was there, but his tone was empty and harsh.

I was in such a state of shock that I hopped off the table and did what he asked without thinking about it. I moved on trembling legs to the coffee table where his cell was chiming and ringing and beeping, and I spotted the name on the iPhone display immediately.

 

 

_**T. Swift calling…** _

 

 

Any dreamy afterglow – or even amazed confusion as to what just happened – vanished instantly. I could feel my hackles stiffen immediately, hot rage searing my veins like a drug.

“It’s Taylor,” I turned, sneering at him where he sat on the dining table, still covered in sweat and fluid and looking as though he would like to hurt me some more. “Here,” I barked, holding out the offending, ringing device. Hatred coursed through me.

Tom was on me in a flash, and I yelped when he seated two fingers inside my cunt, wrapping his free arm around my back to pull me flush against him.

“Answer it,” he hissed at me, pressing against my bruised and battered clit with the heel of his hand. “Go on…. _do it_.”

My eyes widened when I looked down at his thumb spreading moisture around my aroused, tiny button – I was bleeding.


End file.
